


Misc. Hetalia Drabbles

by 0Rocky41_7



Series: Hetalia Drabbles [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: College AU, F/F, F/M, Femslash Feburary, Gen, Gymnast AU, Human AU, M/M, Multi, Nyotalia, Soulmate AU, Yuri, ongoing, transtalia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-03-13 12:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 22,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3381728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0Rocky41_7/pseuds/0Rocky41_7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a collection of short, unrelated (for the most part) pieces I had posted from prompts on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Can We Pretend I Didn't Just Say That? [GerIta]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Gerita - "Can we pretend I didn’t just say that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright okay I’ve never written this pairing before, but a couple people I follow have really gotten me into the idea of trans woman!Germany, so here we go. Also I apologize but I use the boring name for fem!Italy sue me.

Louise had never meant to begin frequenting the flower shop. She’d only gone the one time because her mother was in town and she wanted to have some nice flowers on the table to make the small apartment look cheery for Mutti’s visit.

Except then she’d met Feliciana.

By all accounts she was the worst cashier Louise had ever seen, not to mention clumsy, inattentive, airheaded and scatterbrained. But she did know her flowers quiet well and to top it off, she was beautiful. In a way that made the German’s head foggy and distracted her enough that she wasn’t nearly as annoyed as she might’ve normally been with the subpar service. Besides, there was something cute about her…or maybe Louise was just more awestruck by her beauty than she’d originally though.

Shaking her head, she collected her flowers and went on her way. Inexplicably, she was back the next week.

Louise was not experienced in romance. Firstly because it just had never come up much in her life and that was partly because it just didn’t interest her much. She never felt a pressing urge to have a partner and she never felt like she was missing some lost half of herself. Lovey-dovey stuff was all well and good for some people, but she’d just never needed it. Secondly, it was because she was _terrible_ with all things romantic. She could bust off a hundred one-handed push-ups no problem, but trying to express affection for someone she was interested in? Forget it.

Except now she was really starting to regret never having seriously dated because she had no idea what to do about this flower shop girl. Even someone as romantically challenged as Louise could recognize that she was interested in Feliciana. But what on Earth was she supposed to _do_ about it? She thought surely Feliciana had to have a boyfriend. Or if, by some miracle, she was interested in girls, a girlfriend. Sometimes Louise thought the girl was ditzy enough not to have any romantic experience either, but then she’d look at Louise a certain way getting the flowers for her, or say something nice with one of those bright smiles, all sparkling eyes and rosy cheeks, and Louise was sure Feliciana was eons ahead of her in this field.

"You look lovely today, Miss Beilschmidt!" Feliciana chirped as Louise entered the florist’s shop, the tiny bell above the door giving a tinny clang. That was another thing—Felciana was so full of compliments for anyone who entered her store. She never once questioned Louise’s muscular, thick frame or her voice, deeper than she wanted it to be, or anything else. To hear Feliciana speak, Louise was just another lovely _chica_ wandering the streets of Florence.

"Hello," Louise greeted her a bit gruffly, as usual, because either nothing at all entered her head to say, or a thousand things stuffed themselves in there, so tightly packed she couldn’t pick one thing to come out with. However, it didn’t typically bother Feliciana, although Louise had found out the hard way a couple weeks into her frequent florist visits that speaking _too_ harshly had the unfortunate side effect of making Feliciana cry. Fortunately, she was a very forgiving young woman and brushed it off once she’d recovered.

"Are you looking for something specific today?" Feliciana asked, as she did every day.

"No, I—" Louise paused. She usually said no, or just gave a vague idea so that Feliciana would be able to put herself to use, because she never came here looking for anything but the young Italian. But maybe…maybe she could use this to her advantage to gather recon! "Yes," she amended, turning from a rack of ferns to face Feliciana behind the counter. "I was. Er—I was hoping…what sort of flowers do you think you’d…" This had sounded so much easier in her head. "If you were going to…give them to someone…"

"Someone special?" Feliciana guessed with a budding smile of delight. "A special man, hm?"

"Er…" She just had to come out with it. If Feliciana was horrified by the very idea that Louise was gay, she’d have one answer right there. It wasn’t going to do her any good to keep moping over a straight girl anyway. "Not quite." Her face felt like she was looking up at the blazing desert sun and it was _so_ much harder to actually say this than it should’ve been, reasonably. 

"A _ragazza_?” Feliciana guessed, looking just as perky and happy for Louise as she had a moment ago.

Louise nearly passed out from relief. Barrier #1 passed: Feliciana wasn’t appalled by the idea of lesbians.

"Ah…well…yes," she said awkwardly, rubbing the back of her hand. It was a habit she’d picked up in lieu of rubbing the back of her neck.

"Like for a girlfriend?" Feliciana asked excitedly, standing up straight and taking her elbows off the counter.

"Um…not quite," Louise said again, casting her eyes away.

"Someone you _want_ to be your girlfriend,” Feliciana said, nodding with a knowing look on her face. Yeah, Feliciana was lightyears ahead of Louise when it came to romance.

Louise tried to answer, but nothing came out, so she just gave a curt nod and glanced away.

"I know exactly what to do!" Feliciana cried, clapping her hands. She scurried out from behind the counter and started to gather up flowers in a bundle. She put them together in a glass vase and plucked a nice orange ribbon with white polka dots from their selection to wrap around the neck of the vase. She got a tag and set it on the counter. "We should put her name on it," she explained to Louise, nodding seriously. "She’ll love it, guaranteed! So, what should I write?"

Louise’s mouth felt dry; she hadn’t been able to stop Feliciana from putting the whole bouquet together, but now what? She could make something up, but then Feliciana would think she actually did have a girlfriend. She couldn’t back out now, Feliciana would think she was crazy for letting her go through all of this just to go “haha actually I don’t have anyone” at the end. Or she could—or she could—

"Can I give it to you?" she blurted out, feeling half like she was watching herself from across the room in silent horror. 

"Me?" Feliciana echoed, her auburn eyebrows knitting together.

"Wait—no—can we pretend I didn’t just say that?" Louise asked weakly, running a hand through her short blonde hair. "Forget it. I’m sorry. I’ll just go. Sorry." She backed away from the counter and made for the door, intent on getting out of here as fast as possible.

"Miss Beilschmidt, wait!" Feliciana hurried after her and grabbed onto Louise’s arm. "What’s wrong? Don’t be embarrassed, I love flowers!" she said with that smile that knocked Louise out of breath.

"But you— and I— I don’t even know if you—" Louise wanted to slap herself; what was the matter with her? She knew how to speak coherent Italian; where was it all going? Felciana just beamed at her.

"I like ladies too, Miss!” she assured. “I’d be glad to have flowers from a pretty lady like you!”

"Well I just—wait, you would?" Louise felt like she’d finally gathered up some words to brush off the incident when she really listened to Feliciana at last.

"Of course!" the brunette continued, unshaken by Louise’s awkwardness. "You’re so strong and smart and you don’t care what anyone thinks!" Louise almost laughed, because Feliciana had no idea how much she cared what other people thought sometimes. But it was bizarre, to hear the girl speak so highly of her. "I think you’re really cool!" The German woman just stared at her. Feliciana looked around, beginning to wonder if she’d said something wrong. "But here, I can put the flowers back if you want…" she began.

"No!" It came out louder than she’d meant to and Louise winced. "I mean…if you’re okay with it…I want you to have them," she said, reaching into her pocket for her wallet. Feliciana’s face lightened up again.

"Grazi!" She went to the counter and signed her own name to the tag, adding a little ‘From: Louise’ on there before tying it onto one of the stems. Louise paid her, her face the same color as the tulips. "Hey, maybe next time we can talk when I’m not at work," Feliciana suggested happily as she put Louise’s money into the register and gave her incorrect change (again).

"Y-you mean it?" Louise asked, looking stunned. She couldn’t believe the way this whole visit had gone.

"I sure do!" Feliciana grinned. "I’ll take you someplace really nice, huh? It’ll be great! You’ll be so impressed, you’ll fall in love with me right away!" She laughed and after a moment, Louise joined her. Somehow, she didn’t think Feliciana needed St. Peter’s Basilica or the picturesque beaches of southern Italy to make Louise fall in love with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay confession time I’ve never extensively written Germany or Italy either, so I apologize if either or both of them are OOC 
> 
>  
> 
> [On tumblr](http://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/111229888545/gerita-can-we-pretend-i-didnt-just-say-that)


	2. Must Be a Day Ending in Y [RusAme]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Fem!RusAme "Must be a day ending in y"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I used the gymnast AU from my aphyuriweek day 7 prompt for this
> 
>  
> 
> [On tumblr](http://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/111210064695/for-the-meme-fem-rusame-must-be-a-day-ending)

"Suck my dick, Braginskaya!" Amelia yelled, pumping a fist in the air,

"That doesn’t even make sense," Anya retorted from across the aisle, scowling. "Unless there is something you’ve been hiding." Before Amelia could respond, her coach smacked her lightly on the back of the head and told her that that was not an appropriate way to react to seeing the 8 flash on the scoreboard in regards to her recently completed routine.

Anya got up when it was her turn and marched onto the floor, determined to beat Amelia’s score. Amelia watched her as intently as Anya had watched her a few minutes ago, analyzing every tiny movement of her feet, the position of her hands, the arch of her back. Her breathing came in shorter, deeper waves, tensed and waiting for Anya to make a mistake. So far, nothing. Anya’s long silvery ponytail flew out behind her as she flipped, jumped and bent over backwards. It wasn’t as good as some others Amelia had seen her do, but it was far from bad.

She bowed when she finished and strode off the mat. There was no cocky smirk on her face, like with Amelia, but it wasn’t necessary; the tilt of her chin and the assured look in her eyes said it all. Sweat glistened on her face and neck as she took her seat, reaching for her water bottle. She and Amelia eyed each other across the aisle like they were contemplating assassination.

Anya’s score was flashed across the scoreboards: 8.5 

"Bullshit," Amelia hissed, clawing at her thighs.

"Who is sucking dicks _now_ , Jones?” Anya asked with a nasty smile, leering over at Amelia. The American growled but looked away, trying to remember what coach had told her about rising to Anya’s bait. When the rest of the girls had finished their routines, Amelia got stiffly to her feet and strode into the American girls’ locker room. It didn’t matter that she’d beaten the rest of the Russians—she hadn’t beaten Anya.

"It’s rigged or something, no way that damn commie should’ve scored higher than me," she grumbled to no one in particular as the girls stripped down in their locker room. The top half of her leotard had been removed and hung loosely from her waist.

"Is it really so inconceivable that you should lose, little pig?" drawled an all-too familiar voice from the doorway.

"Fuck off and get the hell out," Amelia replied without looking over at Anya. "I got nothing to say to you, pinko."

"It sounds to me like you have an awful lot to say," Anya carried on, approaching Amelia regardless of the hostility—or perhaps, because of. "Like always." Amelia turned and glared up at her with hot blue eyes. Her face was framed with recently trimmed, thick blonde hair and Anya fancied she looked like a little doll, something you might see in the window of a cheap toy store. Her hair was too short to put in a single bun, or even a proper ponytail like Anya’s, so she usually wore it in ballet buns or pigtails for her routines. She must’ve just let it down. Anya reached out and brushed a hand through it. "Shall I remind you of virtues of the silence?" she asked.

"Shall I remind you what my foot up your ass feels like?" Amelia demanded, still half-turned away from her in an effort to hide her bare chest. Anya’s eyes flicked up to the two girls remaining in the locker room. She didn’t order them out, but they sure kept their heads down and pretended like they weren’t seeing anything. 

"Always so aggressive, Yankee," Anya chided. "Does my presence make you so angry?"

"Yeah, because you’re fucking annoying," Amelia said, the muscles in her shoulders flexing as they tensed with irritation. "You blather on about how I talk too much, but you never shut up either!"

"Then make me," Anya said, leaning in so they were nose to nose. She could still feel the heat from Amelia’s body after the exercise; she hadn’t yet showered and smelled faintly of sweat. It was very familiar.

"Fuck you," Amelia breathed, turning to fully face Anya.

"If you must," Anya replied. Amelia put a hand on Anya’s waist and pushed her back against the lockers as she leaned up to lock their lips together. Anya grabbed onto Amelia and pulled her closer as the door swung shut on the last two gymnasts, giving them their privacy at last.

"And then they just started making out!" Katie complained to Rachel, who was texting her boyfriend and less than interested in the escapades of their star gymnast and the Russians. Especially as they occurred with growing frequency; she didn’t understand how Katie hadn’t put two and two together sooner. "They’re both acting crazy!"

"Must be a day ending in y," Rachel intoned, tapping on her phone with her thumb.


	3. Three Wishes [FraIre]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the "30 Days of OTP" prompt list. Ireland is my OC.

"I heard a story from Grand-père Rome today,” France said as he hovered above a small stream, a sharpened stick grasped in one hand, waiting to see if he could spear one of the fish wriggling their way upstream. Ireland’s response was something of a grunt, enough to show she had heard him speak. She was busy re-stringing her bow, settled in the cool grass beneath the shade of a leafy tree.  


"Etiam*," He paused a moment, his eyes scanning the water for a flash of silver. Nothing showed itself so he settled his weight back. "He heard it from Greece, who heard it from Persia," he went on, turning back to glance at his silent companion. Her small arms were straining to bend the bow so she could tie the string around the top. Eventually his long pause came to her attention and she presumed he was waiting for her to speak.

"Yeah?" She turned her emerald gaze to him, waiting to hear the rest of the story. Satisfied, the young Roman territory continued.

"He says Greece said that Persia said if you find a magic lamp and rub it, that a spirit will come out," he said, feeling  a pinch of triumph as interest sparked in Ireland’s gaze. She couldn’t resist good fairy tales. "And," he went on, drawing the word out tantalizingly, "that spirit has to grant you three wishes!"

"Only three?" she scoffed, but he could tell she was still intrigued. "What a cheap spirit." She went back to trying to restring her bow and finally managed to bend it far enough to hastily start wrapping it.

"But they can be any wishes!" France said, suddenly breaking off to jab at a fish in the water. No luck.

"Can you wish for more wishes?" Probably a predictable question, but Francis panicked because he didn’t know. He was supposed to be the expert on this story!

"I don’t know," he mumbled, making a half-hearted jab at another fish. "That sounds a bit like cheating."

"I suppose." She tugged on the string to make sure it was on tightly, plucking at it to test the tension.

"If you had three wishes, what would you wish for?" France asked, abandoning the stick and his puny attempts to catch a fish. He turned fully to face Ireland, sitting with his legs tucked off to the side like a lady in a skirt might. Ireland sat with her legs spread open, one knee up against her chest—she wore breeches, like a boy.

"I’d wish for a spear through Rome’s heart," she said, notching an arrow and pulling it back to test the bow. France frowned.

"You know, Rome isn’t really so bad," he said. "He’s brought us a lot of useful things…"

"Useful to you, maybe," she said. He’d had this almost-argument with her before; she stubbornly refused to budge her stance even a little. With what he knew about the short redhead, that wasn’t really surprising.

"I think I’d wish for all the beautiful things in the world," he said dreamily, dropping the subject of Rome. He stretched out on his stomach and plucked a daisy to twirl between his fingers.

"Aye? And what would you do with all those things?" Ireland asked, turning her attention back to Francis.

"I’d admire them," he said. "I would appreciate their beauty and be happy." Mairead looked at him a long moment. Sometimes she worried about this kid—she wondered if he was really cut out to be a nation. It was a hard, brutal world and soft, idealistic Francis hardly seemed fit to be able to defend himself and make the hard decisions required by their lives. Sometimes (and she’d never admit it), she even felt defensive over him. As much as he annoyed her, he was her friend (maybe?) and she felt the need to protect him once in a while.

"I’d wish that no one would ever come to my island!" she said at last. "Or my brothers’. That everyone would leave us alone and I could read and write all day and not have to worry about stupid things like war." She drew the arrow back again and fired. It thudded into a nearby tree, quivering as it lodged in the bark. A startled rabbit burst out of the bushes beneath. France knew a heartbeat before Mairead scrambled to her feet that the chase was on.

"Wait!" He grabbed his sharpened stick and followed her as she pelted after the rabbit. He was the only one to think to retrieve her fired arrow on the way by. "Mairead!"

***

France wasn’t sure this was a good time to be visiting Ireland. He hadn’t seen her in quite some time, but after the failed Easter Rising, he was willing to bet she wasn’t in a good place. Which was, of course, the exact reason he needed to visit, but he also harbored a private fear she blamed him for the failure. Despite the fact that their mutual brigade had been dissolved centuries ago, he was still something of an unofficial ally. One of very few she had. Neither he nor Spain had come to her aid this time—they were both caught up in the Great War.

He found her on the beach, watching the water. He’d seen her sit like that before, watching for selkies to emerge from the water. She insisted they were real, even though Francis had never seen any proof of that (privately he was a bit disappointed, because she assured him they were beautiful women beneath their seal skins).

One foot rested on the rock she was seated on, with her elbow on the knee and her chin in her hand.

"Ireland?" She turned her head and surveyed him a moment in silence before turning back to the water. France looked pretty rough too; the war was taking a massive toll on him physically. The constant shelling of his land was resulting in massive injury for Francis himself; he was bearing several bloody bandages and walked with a limp.

"What are you doing here, France?" she asked, plucking a bit of debris from the rock and chucking it into the water. "Don’t you have a war to be fighting?"

"To be honest I’m glad to have an excuse to be away from the front for a few hours," he said, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

"Glad I could serve as an excuse." There was a hint of bitterness in her voice, but mostly it was flat.

"Margaret…"

"I hope you’re not here to apologize; I don’t want to hear it," she said. "You’re under no obligation to help me. It’s my own damn fault this happened." She dropped her foot onto the sand and rested her hand on her knee, curling her fingers around the fabric of her skirt. "If I had believed him…believed in what he was saying…if I’d been stronger…" She shook her head, trying to shake out the tormented thoughts that had plagued her since the first occupation of the English.

"It won’t do you any good to think like that," France said quietly, coming closer. "We’ve all had those thoughts; they  never help."

"I know," she said somewhat snappishly. "But Jaysus Francis, hasn’t it been long enough? Should I give up? Am I just hurting my people by persisting in this?"

"I can’t answer that for you," he said, shaking his head. "No one can but you. You know that."

"You are the most unhelpful son of a bitch," she grumbled. She lapsed into silence, watching the dark waves wash along the shore. The water was just slightly darker than the sky, which today resembled a gray oil painting.

France too, was silent for a long moment and then he said, “No more war.”

"Huh?" She turned to look at him, slightly confused. But France, in Ireland’s opinion, was just a bizarre fellow and confused her a lot of the time.

"That’s what I’d wish for," he said. "For my second wish. No more war." Ireland just stared uncomprehendingly at him. "Don’t you remember?" he asked. "When we were children and I first told you the story about the genie and the three wishes?"

"Oh." Remembrance dawned on her face. "You’re thinking of that _now_?” she asked incredulously.

"It came to mind, oui," he confirmed. For a moment they just looked at each other.

"Freedom," she said at last. "I’d wish for freedom." 

"You and how many others, I wonder?" He lifted his gaze to the sea again, troubled. The Great War was making him think and he was beginning to wonder if he liked being an empire, if there was anything truly justifiable about it. Later, after the Treaty of Versailles, would come the existential crisis, where he lost sight of the value of life at all.

"A great many, I should think," she replied. "A very great many."

***

"I thought I might find you here." A smile tugged at Francis’ lips as he emerged into the warm evening. Between his long fingers, a wine stem rested, the bulb of the glass cradled against his fingers. Ireland turned from where she leaned against the stone railing of the balcony to glance back at him.

"It was too warm in there," she said. "I needed air."

"It’s not nearly as bad as they used to be," he said, walking over to join her against the railing. "At least you don’t have to wear a corset." A grin flashed across his face and Ireland tried in vain not to look amused.

"I suppose there’s that," she said. "Though I’m sure you’d have no problem fixing that for me if I did."

"Not at all, cherie," he purred, reaching out to rest a hand on her lower back. It was a mark of how far they’d come that she didn’t even bother to push him off (or perhaps she’d finally given up).

"How are things inside?" she asked as Francis sipped from his wine glass.

"Oh, the same as always," he responded, waving a hand. "But with far less backstabbing, these days."

"You must find it quite dull," she remarked.

"Ma cher, everything is dull compared to Versailles," he chuckled, stepping closer to slide the arm around her waist.

"Everything?" She arched a ginger eyebrow. France let out a quiet breath and leaned in to peck her lips.

"Almost everything," he amended with a little smile. Mairead looked off, but he could tell she was pleased. France settled against the railing, closer to Ireland. "What about your third wish?" he asked, looking over at her. Her hair was put up for the formal occasion and he admired briefly the line of her neck.

"My third wish?" This time she caught on faster. "Ah, from our genie?" He nodded and sipped his wine. A tiny smile crossed her face and she lowered her eyes. "I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely truthful, Francis. My last wish _was_ my third wish.”

"Quoi?" He tilted his head slightly and she met that lovely clear gaze again.

"When I wished for freedom," she said. "That was my third wish." He raised his eyebrows slightly in surprise.

"Oh? Then what was the second?" he asked. That little smile darted across her lips again.

"I already have it," she said. France leaned in and kissed her jaw, just because he could.

"Then you can tell me," he said, "with no fear that it won’t come true."

"It was a selfish wish,"  Mairead said, shaking her head just a touch.

"Petite, you are talking to the most selfish man you know," he said, squeezing her waist. Ireland shook her head, disagreeing, but she didn’t front the argument now. "I won’t judge, I swear," he promised, covering his heart with his hand and wine glass. Her cheeks felt a touch warm, but the light was at their backs and it was dark out, so it was impossible to tell. She turned to Francis and put her lips to his ear. 

"I wished for you."

For a moment he just watched her face, and then, instead of replying, he set down the wine glass and kissed her deeply. That was good enough (maybe even a little better).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [On tumblr](http://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/82624820308/30-days-of-otp-fraire)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> *Yes (Latin)


	4. First Kiss [RusAme]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the "30 Days of OTP" prompt list.

The first time is summer and sun and bustling docks, just ahead of rolling wheat fields. The very first time, America is just thirteen and a veritable storm of blushing and stuttering and stammering; he forgets how prudish her big brother is—because her reaction is so him, so very English, so very Puritan. She doesn’t even have it in her to shout at him to stop laughing at her, because he is laughing, that smooth, full laughter that so few people have ever heard, let alone drawn from him. Her hands are tugging at the strings of her bonnet, the stark white in great contrast to her flaming face.

                The first time wasn’t romantic at all; thirteen is practically a grown woman by European standards and so Russia had greeted her as he greeted all women in his country: with a kiss on the lips. But to America, it means something entirely different and while Russia roars with laughter over the misunderstanding, she’s still trying to wrap her mind around the idea that Russia kissed her, let alone the idea that such a greeting is commonplace in Russia.

                He almost feels bad for laughing, so he buys her a treat, a round, shiny red apple and then they get down to trading business—with no mention of the fact that she’s not supposed to be trading with him in the first place.

***

                The second time is darkness and sweet fall heat, twirling dresses and uncertainty. The second time is the time they both remember.

                “I will take you to Moscow,” he says, because of all people, America is the only one he calls friend. She trips over herself to make him welcome in her country, throwing vast, expensive balls and signing away trade treaties and threatening anyone who might pose a risk to Russia. No one else in the world would stand up and shout their friendship with him, no one but her.

                She chatters to him the whole boat ride to Russia and he listens with a warm sort of contentment he has learned to associate with America. He isn’t sure why it’s there, but he thinks it is because their relationship is so simple, so uncomplicated.

                She is everything Old World Europe is not—she is fresh, she is young, she is energetic. She brims with awe and fascination for the world and lacks their bitterness and cynicism; she is genuine. He is weary sometimes, so very weary of the self-serving, backstabbing, conniving of the Europeans and the Asians too, for that matter. America is not any of that; she doesn’t hide her intentions behind slick smiles and sugary words. He thinks there is nothing she would not say, if it came into her head. England never did succeed in teaching her to hold her tongue.

                The more he knows her, the more he understands England’s frustration and exasperation. Ivan would not like to be the one having to try to turn America into a lady! But, he thinks, he would be very bored with her if she was a proper lady. She was far too smart and too enthusiastic to be stuffed into that tiresome old mold.  What on Earth would they talk about if she was spending all her time pretending not to know more than he did or to understand things when he explained them? He loved it when America showed him up in something—she was quick and clever behind that childish façade and he knew it. It would be terribly dull if she didn’t try to one-up him all the time or exchange their various ideas together.

                She moves so energetically around the deck, despite the Russian sailors muttering about it being bad luck to have a woman onboard, that he thinks she’d clamber right up the mast and join them in the rigging if she could. When they touch down in Russia (after crossing over several countries and the Black Sea), she hasn’t lost any of that zeal. He takes her to Moscow and it’s only there, as he’s showing her around Red Square, that he sees her enthusiasm fade. He pauses, watches her tug at the front of her dress, her eyes fixed on her simple brown boots, chewing at her lip. He wonders if something is wrong and he asks her.

                “Ivan, I—” She looks around the square, looking distressed, even. His brows furrow lightly and it is so rare that he sees her looking this way (he can’t recall if he ever has) that it takes him several minutes to realize she feels out of place. “I can’t be here in _this._ ” She gives her dress another worried tug. “I’m not fashionable enough for Moscow!”

                The very idea is so preposterous, the whole statement—that she is not fashionable enough for _Moscow?_ That anyone is not fashionable enough for Moscow? That Moscow is fashionable, some unattainable image of chic, modern style?  No one has ever suggested such a thing to Russia, who has spent most of his life being the backwater of Europe; he can’t help but burst into laughter.

                She thinks he’s laughing at her and she punches him in the arm and shouts, “Don’t laugh at me! I’m serious Ivan! You brought me here and didn’t tell me I was going to have to be dressed up all fancy!” They’re making a scene in the square now, but Ivan can’t stop laughing—her statement put him into hysterics and her continued impression that Moscow is some pinnacle of fashion does nothing to calm him down. When he finally gets a grip, Amelia is in a snit and won’t talk to him. He tries to explain to her and then he says:

                “You are not unfashionable, little dove, you are just _different._ It’s not lack of fashion, it’s American fashion.” She was completely unfashionable, but he wasn’t going to say that to her. America dresses for functionality. She works hard and the very last thing on her mind is whether or not she looks chic while she’s plowing a field. He knows she likes the little nicknames he gives her and she’s trying to stay mad but it’s not working.

                She gets over it though and when he brings her to the Palace, she’s over it. When he introduces her to the tsar and tsarina, her court etiquette is absolutely abysmal; she completely botches everything, even the things Ivan explained to her on the way over. He winces each time, but also stifles a snicker, because everything she does is so Amelia. Regardless, the whole royal family is in love with her and he catches a whisper about a possible alliance with the Americans. It was all going very well.

                But then there was the ball and again she comes to him to protest, to say she cannot go to a ball, she has nothing to wear and she’ll be dreadfully out of place and balls really aren’t her thing, but he shushes her with a wave of his hand and drops her into the care of the Grand Duchesses—the tsar’s daughters—to get her ready for the night. They promise to take good care of her and they most certainly do not disappoint. As a matter of fact, he doesn’t even recognize her. His eyes pass right over her and continue scanning the ballroom for dignitaries and nobles he knows until he hears a protest.

                “Vanya!” When he looks back over at her, he very nearly has to pick his jaw up off the ground. The Duchesses have given her a very in Russian hairstyle; her cheeks are painted with just the slightest amount of rouge, making them rosy against the lightness of her face, her lips are painted pink and her dress—they chose well—her dress is blue and blue is the perfect color for Amelia, it will always be the perfect color for Amelia. But when he lays eyes on her and feels his throat go dry and several long moments go by, wherein he is expected to say something, but doesn’t, he thinks this is very, very bad. He’s not lost for words! He’s the Russian Empire, he’s witty and well-spoken and…and…and America’s eyes are like pools of starlight and how what they’ve done with her make-up frames that stunning Cupid’s bow upper lip of hers and…

                “Ivan…?” Now there was uncertainty in her voice; if he was taking so long to come up with something to say, anything at all, even a generic “You look lovely”, she must truly look ridiculous. Fancy balls and royal parties are not America’s scene and for all her lack of tact, she does know that. She knows she makes a mess of their social structures and rules and that she belongs back in a field in Carolina or a dock in New York, not here, with all these fancy, beautiful people. They belonged here, they fit in, they all looked regal and royal and if even Russia couldn’t come up with something to say about her appearance, everyone else too, had to know how little she fit in here.

                “I’ve never seen Vanya speechless before,” chuckles a quiet voice. They both snap their attention to a newcomer; a homely, kind-faced women dressed in pale yellow, standing beside Russia.

                “Katyusha?” He doesn’t know whether to be relieved his sister had rescued him or terminally anxious about what she might say to America. Ukraine smiles and goes up to the younger nation.

                “You must be America,” she says, greeting Amelia with a kiss. At least this time, America is somewhat prepared, though she still blushes and stammers slightly. “I have heard so much about you!” Ukraine goes on, catching America’s hands to give them a squeeze. “Ivan always speaks very highly of you.” While America searches for a reply—Ivan thinks she gets something out as Ukraine turns, but no one listening anymore—Yekaterina says to him, “Vanya! Don’t be rude, ask your guest to dance.” She steps away from Amelia, who looks unlikely to outlive the color on her face as she raises her gaze to Russia’s.

                He steps forward and offers his hand, bowing after a moment of hasty remembrance. Amelia’s face flushes anew at the sight of Russia bowing to her. It’s something so common amongst Russian upper class that it wouldn’t matter to anyone else in the room, but it’s something unfamiliar and strange to America, who’s flustered by the formality of the gesture.

                “Gospazitza Amelia…would you care for a dance?” he asked softly. Hesitantly, America stretches out her white-gloved (covering the cuts and callouses on her rough hands) and lays it in his.

                “I uh, sure, but are we going to…? I’m not sure I…what are we dancing?” A smile stretches across Russia’s face because even under all that, she’s still America and that’s a great comfort; he relaxes some, hearing her fluster as usual when given direct attention that might be interpreted as even romantically inclined.

                “I think we will just stick with the Viennese Waltz, hm?” He takes her hand more firmly and leads them into the proper position. Ukraine watches from the edges as Russia guides America around the ballroom. What a curious thing, this new nation in the West…it would be interesting, perhaps, to see what would become of her.

                The ball, as a matter of fact, passes without event. Russia does manage to find his “You look lovely” and America relaxes slightly, though she still wonders what kept it so long. She says, jestingly in return, that he looks lovely too. He squints at her and she laughs; she wouldn’t say that he looked quite strapping in his get-up, handsome even, because she knew she could never get those things out without choking on the words.

                It was after the ball, on one of the balconies, that he comes to talk to her and is again swept away. She’s saying something to him, something about the ball, he thinks, but all he hears is the sound of her voice, the warm, familiar tone, the strangely accented English. He couldn’t say what he was thinking then or if he was at all, but he tended to think he wasn’t, because if he was, he’d have been afraid and if he was afraid, he wouldn’t do it. And as much as he didn’t want to do it, he was terrified of _not_ doing it, which would be the result of overthinking, so while he is busy thinking about how much he isn’t thinking about kissing America, she is slowly turning as red as a rose because when he opens his eyes, he’s already _done_ it and he can count every eyelash framing those brilliant blue eyes that seem to at once contain the skies and the oceans together.

                There is a slight, shaky pressure and he realizes in her own clumsy, unpracticed, uncertain way, she is trying to kiss him back. The very idea makes him kiss her twice as energetically before he realizes it’s probably too much and he pulls away. Both of them are red now and neither of them has any words until America blurts out:

                “I have to get back to my room!” Grabbing her skirts, she hurries off and he tries to call out to her, but by the time he can think even semi-coherently, she’s gone. Watching from one of the windows higher up, Ukraine chuckles again. She knew it; her brother thought he was so hard to read, but she knew him like a worn old book. The only question now was how things would go down between him and that blushing young nation he’d brought back from the New World. But no one, not even Ukraine, could foresee the dismal future for America and Russia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [On tumblr](http://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/86371708030/30-days-of-otp-rusame)


	5. Scars [RusAme]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I was thinking if you could write some hurt/comfort fluff or even angst(y fluff) about what happened when Alfred found out about Russia's neck scars (I don't think they're actual canon, but there's a popular headcanon that he hides those suicide/murder attempt scars under his scars. So if you could please break my feels?"

The gardens were mostly silent but for the quiet chirping of bugs and the occasional whisper of persons passing by. Alfred grasped a tall, thin glass of champagne in his hand as he wandered through the tall bushes and rose plants. While drinking at his age was frowned upon in his own country, Russia never stopped him from doing it here, so long as he never did to excess.

He thought about the message the pageboy had given him moments earlier, in the ballroom. Russia had most certainly sent him out here into the garden but they were frustratingly large (Alfred had stood in awe of the the first time he’d been to the Summer Palace) and he couldn’t see Ivan’s hulking form in the darkness.

"I thought you said you had a good hunting sense, dorogoi," drawled a voice behind him. Alfred jumped slightly and turned to scowl briefly, his young face momentarily twisting up.

"Ivan! You were hiding on purpose, you cur," he said. Russia just smirked and held his hand out to Alfred.

"Come with me, I have something to show you," he said. Alfred continued to look irked for a moment, but quickly brushed it off because it didn’t suit him to fake irritation for long. He took Russia’s arm and let the man take him away. In the darkness, it didn’t bother him as much that Russia was leading him like he would a lady.

"Where are we going?" he asked, looking up at the taller man’s face.

"Patience, Alfred," he replied. "I will not get you lost, which is apparently a worry when you are by yourself."

"You live here," Alfred grumbled. "You know this place like the back of your hand! I’d like to see you find your way through Boston without my help!"

"Touche,"  Ivan admitted with a shrug. "Ah—there." He brought them to a halt when they had emerged from the bushes and pointed up. "Look at the moon tonight." For a moment, America just stared. Then he let out a low whistle.

"Wow," he said, an awed grin brushing across his face. "Ain’t that something. Look at that beauty." Russia guided them over to a marble bench and they sat down. "Imagine seeing it up close," he marveled.

"That would be…incredible." And by the softness of Russia’s tone and the slight little smile on his face, Alfred knew the Russian was as awed as he was. He tugged on Russia’s scarf, which he wore despite being decked out in his best formal wear for the ball.

"Imagine going into space," he said, a broad, childish grin splitting across his youthful face. "Seeing the stars. The planets. The moon. Seeing Earth." Ivan removed Alfred’s hand and straightened his scarf before replying.

"That would be quite the sight," he said. "But I think your head is full of cloud sometimes, Alfredka." America had long since stopped asking why Russia called him that. And Russia would never admit that Alfred was never more beautiful than when he was talking about far-fetched dreams and fairy tales. His eyes shone and his whole face lit up and just looking at his expression would make you believe anything was possible. Ah, the ideology of the young. Sometimes, Ivan missed having that.

America watched Russia fiddle with the scarf.

"How come you always wear that thing, Ivan?" he asked. He knew Ukraine had given it to Ivan when he was a child, but that wasn’t the whole explanation.

"My sister—"

"I know she gave it to you," Alfred interrupted. "But I’ve never seen you without it."

"France says it is our job to protect the world from ugly things," Ivan said, looking across the gardens. Alfred’s brow furrowed. He didn’t care at all for the Russia and France’s habits of talking in metaphor and vague simile; he far preferred to be up-front about things.

"Ivan, that’s no answer and you know it," he said. He ran his hand over the scarf. Russia sighed.

"Afredka, I know it is hard for you to believe, but my country was not always strong," he said. America had only known him as the powerful Russian Empire, terror of the East and indomitable force of Eurasia. Big enough to span two continents. Alfred knew nothing of his tormented childhood, of his victimhood and the pitiful tears he had shed upon realizing that violence was his only chance to escape. He had no desire to relive such memories with a country who, thus far, admired and considered him a friend.

"And my country wasn’t always free," America rejoined. Ivan had seen him at his lowest already—The Revolutionary War, The Civil War, 1812. He wished Ivan didn’t feel the need to protect some sort of image around him, because he always got the feeling he wasn’t getting the whole story.

Russia was silent for a moment and then shook his head.

"You are young and—"

"That doesn’t mean I can’t understand," America broke in quietly. "Come on Russia, you’re the only one who really treats me like an equal. Don’t stop now." Russia gave another quiet sigh and brushed a lock of Alfred’s hair back behind his ear. "I wouldn’t judge," he added, watching Ivan’s face with an earnest blue gaze. "We’re friends."

Russia watched America’s eyes in return. He didn’t doubt the young nation had the best of intentions, but everything in Russia’s upbringing had been to never trust anyone and harbor all secrets like gold. And selfishly, part of him didn’t want to spoil the image of himself in America’s mind as the unshakable power of the tsar. One hand went up to toy with the scarf, as he frequently did when he was nervous or anxious. America reached up and put his hands on it as well. When Russia didn’t push him away, he gently started to pull the fabric away from Russia’s throat.

Ivan didn’t stop him.

Resignedly, he let Alfred peel away the scarf and reveal the ugly scarring around his neck, marks of the bullying he had suffered in his youth and the abuse of his own rulers. It wasn’t a pretty sight and it was something he much preferred to keep covered. Alfred was silent and Ivan held his breath. He didn’t realize his eyes were half-closed until he felt Alfred’s warm, calloused fingertips against his scars never having seen the young man’s hand move.

When Alfred finally spoke, what he said was, “You’re really strong, aren’t you?” It seemed to him one had to be, to go through whatever had given Ivan those scars and come out as sturdy and stable as he was.

Russia gave a slight noise of amusement and looked away, embarrassed. It was subtle, but it wasn’t really that hard to embarrass Ivan.

"What?" Alfred asked, frowning slowly and lowering his hand.

"You," Ivan said. "Of all the things to say."

"Was there something wrong with it?" the American asked, frowning. He was constantly worried of saying the wrong thing in Ivan’s court; there was so man nuances and subtleties to it, he felt every bit the bull in the china shop that France had exasperatedly accused him of being in Versailles.

"No," Ivan said, shaking his head with a little smile. "It was fine. Perfect." He ruffled Alfred’s hair slightly and they both turned their attention back to the moon, glowing full and beautiful overhead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [On tumblr](http://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/97929875050/i-was-thinking-if-you-could-write-some)


	6. Madeline Just Wants to Enjoy a Ballet [RusAme]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fem!Canada takes her sister to the ballet and really starts regretting it.

Amelia only went to the ballet because Madeline wanted to go. And since Maddie had gone to more than a few baseball games with Amelia, she felt she sorta owed it to her sister. So she dressed up in a short blue dress and did up her hair and make-up and went out with Madeline to see _Sleeping Beauty_. 

As they settled into their seats, she thought how this was so a Madeline thing to do. She’d always taken more after their French mother than Amelia had. When she’d had her fill of looking around the theater and the middle aged to elderly people filling it up, Amelia was already bored. She rolled her head around and sighed and slouched in her seat until Madeline thrust a program at her.

"Here, read about the ballet," she said, already wondering if she should’ve bothered trying to get Amelia to come at all. 

"I hate reading," Amelia muttered to herself, opening it up anyway. It _was_ something to do, and they had a list of the ballerinas involved, with pictures and a personal blurb. “Ha, Maddie, look at this guy’s last name,” she snickered, showing Madeline the image of the unfortunate Henry Butts.

"You are so immature," Madeline said as she stifled a snort. Amelia smirked, knowing she’d gotten her. Madeline liked to pretend to be so much more mature, but she wasn’t really. Okay maybe a little. But not a lot.

"Heyy, who’s this?" she asked after a few more minutes of silence. Continuing to scan the list of ballerinas for more funny names or weird pictures, she came across a particular woman. Objectively, Amelia knew the woman wasn’t beautiful. She had a thick jaw and a tall forehead and a big nose. But at the same time, Amelia was unquestionably intrigued. And the woman’s eyes, they were such a curious shade of blue that looked almost purplish. Her smile, unlike the others’, didn’t seem to reach her eyes and made her look more like she was planning your murder rather than thanking you for coming to see her ballet. Amelia loved it. She had such a weakness for chicks who could kick her ass (her dream was a threesome with Captain America and Peggy Carter). "Maddie!" She elbowed her sister a couple times. "Who’s this?"

"That’s Anya Braginskaya," Madeline said, looking at the picture for just a moment.

"Yeah? Who is she? There’s nothing personal in her blurb." Nothing at all; it just listed the ballets she’d been in and how long she’d been doing it (Yikes! That was a long time!). 

"She came here from the Mariinsky Ballet in Russia," Maddie said, sound almost awed. "She’s one of the best dancers around, probably the best in this company. It looks like she’s taking one of the main roles tonight." There was a pause where Madeline almost knew what was coming.

"She’s kinda hot."

"Amelia!" Madeline looked somewhat affronted.

"Whaaat?" she drawled.

"We are here to watch a ballet and appreciate a work of art, not oogle the performers!" Madeline said.

"I don’t see why we can’t do both," Amelia pointed out. 

"Amelia!"

"Alright, alright, I’m shutting up," she said, going back to looking at Anya’s picture. Maybe this would be more fun than she thought.

Eventually the lights darkened and Amelia chucked the program back on Maddie’s lap, relieved something was _finally_ happening. The opening dancers came on and Amelia briefly appreciated their costuming. But when Ms. Braginskaya showed her face, she gasped and elbowed her sister.

"Jeepers Maddie, look at her! I bet she could crush a man’s skull with those thighs!"

"Amelia!" Madeline hissed.

"What? She could!"

"We are not here to speculate about the destructive talents of the dancers, we’re here to appreciate the beauty of the ballet!"

"I don’t see why we can’t do—" Madeline looked at her and she cut herself off with a guilty dog look, remembering she had come here as a favor to Madeline, not to be a pain in the ass. She stopped whispering about the performers and watched. It was interesting for the first couple minutes, but ballet was definitely not Amelia’s thing and if it hadn’t been for her watching Anya, she’d have been bored out of her skull long before intermission. 

When they came out of the restroom, she posed another question for Madeline.

"So how do we get backstage?" she asked.

"Amelia, no. I don’t have backstage passes," she said. "They cost way too much extra."

"Aw, man," she whined. "Come on, I want to meet her!"

"Who?"

"Anya, dummy!" she exclaimed. "Have you been watching her? She’s amazing!"

"I know, I come here all the time," Madeline reminded her. Amelia gave a long-suffering sigh as they headed back to their seats.

"I’m gonna talk to her," she asserted.

"Amelia," came the pleading. "We’re not allowed backstage without passes!" Amelia looked at Madeline and took her seat, although she didn’t look happy about it. The lights dimmed and the girls fell silent as the show resumed.

When it was over, they headed out to the parking lot.

"So when’s the next ballet?" Amelia asked. "And how much are these backstage passes, exactly?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [On tumblr](http://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/110205249665/madeline-just-wants-to-enjoy-a-ballet)


	7. Who Needs Boyfriends? [FRussia]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "For the fem!slash thing Nyo!Frussia who meet bc they were stood up on a double date by their shitty now ex boyfriends Arthur & Alfred."

It was two hours before Marianne decided Arthur wasn’t going to show. That absolutely _prick_. They’d been fighting recently (okay, more than usual, for clarification), but she couldn’t _believe_ he’d stand her up. Even after the nasty things she’d said to him last time she saw him (He had the nerve to call her a whore after she’d fucked him!). Then again, she hadn’t hesitated to rip him apart for whichever transgression he’d committed last; she forgot. There was such a long list.

Even Marianne had to acknowledge their relationship was far from healthy.

But _still_! Standing her up! The nerve!

She muttered something unkind in French and downed the rest of her drink before sliding off the bar stool. Maybe she’d go freshen up and find someone else to fuck, if he was going to be that way. She had to pick up Anya too; the woman had vanished from her side some time ago, while Marianne continued to stare resentfully at the door, empty of Arthur. Speaking of Anya, there had been no sign of her date either. 

On her way to the restroom, she dialed his number. It went right to voicemail. _The coward_ , she thought viciously. He was purposefully ignoring her, like he always did after their fights.

"We’re through," she said simply when the beep had sounded. "This is the last time, Arthur. It’s over. Au revoir. Va faire te foutre*." She shoved her phone back into her purse as she pushed the door to the ladies’ room open. It was mostly empty, but for one occupied stall and one woman slouched against the wall by the sinks, trying to muffle her weeping.

The woman was tall, with straight, silvery blonde hair that reached her waist. She had a thick-set figure and she’d gone a bit heavy on the mascara, which was now running down her cheeks.

"Anya, they’re not—" She cut herself off as she took in Anya’s sorrowful state. "Anya? Oh, don’t cry, Anya, dear," she said in distress, going over to clasp Anya’s hands. "They’re not worth it, they’re really not. I did expect better from Alfred, but he’s a moron when it comes to people. Come on now, let’s clean up and we’ll go have lots of fun without them!"

"Arthur is not coming either?" she asked in a husky voice, her French accented by Russian.

"That little shit." It was a mark of how annoyed Marianne was that she’d use such language; normally she never swore. "I broke it off with him."

"Again?"

"For real this time!" Marianne emphasized. "I’m sick of dealing with what we have going on and the sex just isn’t worth it anymore." There was the crinkle of fake leather from Anya’s tall black boots as she shifted her feet. "But the night isn’t lost! We can still save it." She let go of Anya’s hands and turned her attention to the sparsely lit mirror.

"He was the first real boyfriend I had," Anya said miserably as Marianne carefully applied another layer of dark red lipstick, popping her kissable lips in the mirror. There was another pause, punctuated by barely audible hiccups from the Russian and the sound of the toilet flushing as someone emerged from the occupied stall.

”I know,” Marianne said gently. “I’m sorry, Anya. I’m sorry it was such a disappointment.” Both Anya and Alfred were so romantically challenged and awkward everyone had cheered when they finally got together. Sadly, it had imploded in on itself like a dying star from Alfred’s research projects.

Anya got a grip on herself and set her purse down to splash some cool water on her face.

"Let’s clean you up a bit," Marianne said, grabbing a paper towel and wiping away the stains from Anya’s mascara. "Now we are going to have a good time and forget about those two idiots, alright?" She began to re-apply Anya’s mascara for her. 

"Can we still dance?" Anya asked hopefully.

"Of course we can!" Marianne said brightly, taking out some blush to brush over Anya’s pale cheeks. "We’ll dance together! We don’t need the boys to have fun."

"It will be like a date with the two of us," Anya giggled, starting to smile a little. A stray hiccup escaped, but otherwise she seemed to be past crying.

"Yes, like that," she agreed with a smile of her own, patting Anya’s cheek and putting her make-up away. "Ready to go?" Anya nodded. "Allons-y!" She took Anya’s hand and led her back out into the bar. They drank and danced together until they were both tired out, and Anya wondered perhaps, if Marianne fit better in her arms than she had in Alfred’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *go fuck yourself
> 
>  
> 
> [On tumblr](http://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/110283454475/for-the-femslash-thing-nyofrussia-who-meet-bc)


	8. Exes Who Meet After Not Speaking for Years [RusAme]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Request from tumblr

The vaulting entryway was nearly silent when Ivan stepped in, except for the sound of his shoes on the polished tile floors. Lots of glass and metal gave it a very modern look; he noticed a few potted plants in the corners and vaguely wondered if they were real as he approached the secretary’s desk. He rested a hand lightly on the counter and cleared his throat, waiting for her to look up from the computer.

“I have a meeting with Ms. Hedervary,” he said when she did. 

“Name?” She started messing with the computer again.

“Braginsky, Ivan.” The words rolled off his tongue, which was clearly less at home in English.

“Mmm…” Her eyes scanned the screen and she gave a curt nod. “Conference room four, it’s on the second level,” she said, pointing up the stairs. “To the left.” Ivan nodded his thanks and headed off.

This meeting was a real triumph for him. He’d been working desperately for years to make something for himself and this, for him, was a marker of how far he’d come from his youth, when one might’ve called him doomed. Or, as one teacher had put it in a meeting with his weary mother “careening down a path to self-destruction, sped along by paddles of anger and societal rejection”

He never had liked Mrs. Sutranawiscz, the cranky old hag. 

The worst part was it had seemed like she had been right. Dropping out of college, the drugs, the bars, the shitty old slum he’d lived in. It had looked bad.  
But here he was! He paused at the top of the stairs to feel a little rush of pride; he deserved it. He’d made such a turn-around of things. A real new start. He entered conference room four once he found it and set his briefcase on the table. An intern popped her head in.

"Ms. Hedervary and the others will be in soon!" she promised, then scurrying off to take care of some other important business. Ivan nodded to himself and turned to look out the windows, surveying what he could see of the city. He’d never been to America’s west coast before; it seemed like a relaxed sort of place.

While he was looking out at the view, the sound of footsteps entered the room and then came to a dead halt. Ivan half-turned his head to look and what he saw nearly made him do a double-take because it was not Alfred standing there. Not Alfred Jones, clutching a Starbucks in one hand and a folder in the other, looking like he might turn and fling himself out the windows on the opposite side of the building to escape this. Not Alfredik, whose lips were as red and full as ever, when they weren’t pulled back from a biting smile. 

Suddenly Ivan couldn’t breathe and the room almost seemed to spin; he reached out for the back of one of the plush black leather chairs for a moment but before he could gather himself or Alfred could flee over the bannister of the stairs down the hall, Ms. Hedervary and the rest of her team entered. 

"Ah, Mr. Braginsky, thank you for coming," she said crisply, giving his hand a firm shake. For once, he was glad of his pale complexion—she couldn’t tell he was white as a ghost. "I was glad to hear back so promptly from your company; you’ve been quite accommodating."

"Er—yes, well, we are rather small, so we pride ourselves on speed and efficiency…" he said, fumbling to remember the words in English; his accent redoubled to his horror and he strained his voice trying to recapture the proper English pronunciations. He hadn’t know it at all when he first met Alfred. 

"My team," she said, gesturing to the others taking their seats around the table. Ivan hastily pulled out his own chair and sat down, her words like an insistant buzz in his ears until, "—my newest personal intern, Alfred Jones. He’s quite the bright one, I have high hopes for him." 

He always had been.

"It was a waste," his mother had said, or so Alfred relayed. "You’re so smart and you just throw it away!" As if it were his duty to share his intelligence with the world. Alfred had always hated that idea. 

Ivan had no idea how he got through the rest of the meeting—the purpose of which was for Ms. Hedervary’s firm to sign a deal with Ivan’s small company to design a logo for their latest product. His body seemed to go on autopilot, taking care of the business, signing papers, responding to what others said without him even thinking about it. Alfred’s eyes bored into him from across the table and Ivan felt a cold sweat starting to seep against the collar of his shirt.

Never, never had he though—it shouldn’t have even been possible—the odds—

"Well! That’s all settled then!" Ms. Hedervary smiled for the first time, relaxing her business persona for a moment, and straightened her papers. "I think we can call this finished!"

"Thank you again, Ms. Hedervary," Ivan babbled. "We are so glad to be working with you." He had to clamp down on his mouth from spewing out more unnecessary drivel just to keep himself occupied with something that wasn’t feeling Alfred’s laser-point focus on him. He regretted all the times he’d mocked Alfred’s concentration or attention span because right now 100% of it was on him and he wanted nothing less than for Alfred to be distracted by crackers or something shiny.

Ivan had been planning the whole meeting how he was going to get out of here quickly, but somehow, as everyone began to file out, the plan slipped his mind, knocked out by that brief sentence to Ms. Hedervary before they shook hands again. Alfred managed to trap him in the room.

"Ivan."

"I have to go." His voice came out cold as the depths of the Russian seas.

"Ivan!" Alfred stood in front of the door. His intense gaze was still locked on Ivan and now, with no one else around, Ivan had to acknowledge it. He met the piercing blue eyes and he wanted to run. So what if he was a coward for it? He wanted to. "Can we talk?"

"No." He wasn’t going to do this. He wasn’t going to relieve those years, not now. Not when he had finally reached success and stability. He pushed past Alfred. He could feel the blond put up some resistance, but he wasn’t willing to get into an outright scuffle at work, so Ivan got through. Sheer size was on his side. 

He had been planning to have a look around the city, but he nixed that right away. He hurried down the steps, taking them two at a time, and burst through the doors onto the straight. His taxi couldn’t get to the hotel fast enough and he flung himself into it like a barricade. He slumped back against the door, breathing heavily, his eyes darting around as though his past might beat the door down and bludgeon him with it.

It was a ghost. A phantom. Something sent for the sole purpose of tormenting him—that could be the only explanation! His resolve was being tested!  
He still held that his resolve would have lasted longer if they hadn’t had that bottled amnesia sitting on the counter so nice and pretty (and hideously expensive). Sadly for Ivan, it was less like amnesia and more like sub-par bourbon. He drank it all, every last one of them, even the Schnapps. He was pacing his room agitatedly, twitching, repeatedly running his hand through his hair, very nearly throwing a tantrum by the time the phone rang.

"What is it?" he practically snarled into the receiver when he picked it up.

"Ivan," came the soft whisper on the other side of the phone. 

_No_.

No, no.

No, no, no, no, NO!

Ivan wanted to scream and he tried to fling the phone away, but it wasn’t cordless and it just hit the ground and slid back.

"Ivan," came Alfred’s voice again. "Ivan please. Come. Please come."

"No!" He didn’t realize he’d actually shouted it until the echo of it came back to him.

"Please," Alfred begged. "I need you." Ivan picked up the phone and hissed into it with all the venom he could manage:

"No!"

He wasn’t going to fall back into that; he wasn’t going to let that trap close on him again. He told himself that all the way to putting his shoes back on. He wasn’t going to ever see that man again, he told himself as he hailed a taxi, getting an odd look because he was already drunk and it was only seven in the evening. He wasn’t going to give into Alfred’s begging ever again, he promised himself as he directed the taxi driver to the address on the business card Alfred had somehow managed to slip him without his notice, probably when Ivan was pushing past him to get out of the conference room. He was done with this, he swore as he mounted the front steps to Alfred’s house and flung the door open without knocking.

The sound of footsteps came immediately and Alfred appeared in the entryway, looking less than steady himself.

"Vanya," he breathed, in a tone that suggested he was dying and Ivan had graced him with his presence one last time. "Vanya, you came—" He staggered forward, reaching up to put his arms around Ivan’s neck, but the Russian grabbed him.

"Don’t call me that," he growled. "What game are you playing Alfred? Huh? What are you doing? What’s the matter with you? Don’t you remember—?" He broke off, realizing he was shaking Alfred and the man was still just smiling like a broken dream at him. Ivan’s words weren’t reaching him at all.

"That was a long time ago," Alfred said, wriggling his arms out of Ivan’s vice-like grip to try to embrace him again. Ivan dodged and stepped off to the side.

"I’m not going to do this!" he said, pointing a shaking finger at Alfred. "We can’t, Alfred, it’s no good! We’re no good! You know it!" He was speaking Russian without even thinking about it and Alfred smiled again and replied in kind.

"We are though, baby," he said, shuffling towards Ivan. He was wearing some sort of blue sweatpants that dragged on the ground, flopping over his feet, and a faded gray football t-shirt with sleeves that came down just to his elbows. Ivan was still in his disheveled suit from earlier, his tie—where was his tie? He reached up and fumbled around his neck for a moment, realizing it was gone, and that was when Alfred lunged, trying to plant a kiss on him. He shrieked and flailed, reacting much as a priest in a horror film does to the sight of a Hollywood-manufactured demon. 

"No, Alfred, no!"

"Then why are you here?" Alfred demanded, getting angry at last. "You came! I called and you came, like I knew you would!"

"Because I…" Ivan had no answer. He licked his lips, his throat feeling dry as sandpaper. His hand reached back, seeking something—what, he wasn’t sure—but found nothing, just empty air. "I had to…"

"You had to see me again," Alfred accused softly. "You couldn’t stay away. Admit it Vanya—you still love me." Ivan’s heart stopped. Slowly, his eyes met Alfred’s and he saw that mulish look on his face—oh, how familiar that look was! How he knew that look! It used to make him wild—even now his knees felt weaker. Alfred might seem oblivious to a great deal—but he could be annoyingly perceptive when it suited him.

"I…"

"You love me," Alfred repeated, stepping closer again. "You always come when I call."

"That doesn’t matter!" Ivan snapped, trying to regain his footing again.

"Like hell it doesn’t! And you’re not denying it!" Alfred seized the lack of a denial as a confession. "It’s true!"

"It doesn’t matter!" Ivan repeated. "Alfred—Jones—"

"Don’t fucking ‘Jones’ me you asshole," Alfred interrupted.

"Alfred—we loved each other before," he said, desperately trying to make Alfred see reason. "It didn’t matter! Love doesn’t fix everything!"

Love couldn’t fix the fact that Alfred and Ivan were heroin, ecstacy, crack for each other. As good as they might feel one moment, they felt like shit the next moment. However much they felt like they needed each other, they destroyed each other violently, from the inside out. They both still bore scars—emotional and quite literal—from their time together. Ivan could hardly fathom a more mutually unhealthy relationship.

"You know, after you left, I was going to prove you wrong," Alfred said quietly, looking at the floor. "I was going to show you that I could be something. And it took me eight fucking years but here I am. Because you were right about one thing—I’m smart. I didn’t fail classes because I was stupid. I’m trying now, Vanya! Can’t you see? I’m really trying and so are you! Things are different!" He smiled again. "Look at you, in a suit and everything. You looked so professional—"

"Stop it," Ivan whispered, his hand grasping out to claw at the back of the couch. His hands was spiderwebbed with tiny white scars from where Alfred had once swung a beer bottle at him and he had stopped it with his fist. "Alfred, stop it. This can’t happen."

"Why not?" he asked petulantly. "It’s not like be—"

"We’ll kill each other!" Ivan bellowed. "It’ll be just like before! You know it Alfred, you’re not stupid! You think we’d really be different? That we’ve somehow become good people around each other? No—you always brought out the worst in me and you always will!"

"And you brought out the worst in me and I loved it," Alfred said, his eyes shining.

"I was not good for you!" Maybe he should run. He could just turn and beat it out the back door or shove Alfred out of the way and make a beeline for the front steps…

"I don’t care; you’re what I want." While Ivan was looking for escape routes, Alfred closed the distance between them and when Ivan turned back, he saw Alfred for a heartbeat. Then his hands closed around Alfred’s throat and jaw and he pulled the American in, smashing their lips and teeth together. A growl of triumph left Alfred’s throat and he grabbed Ivan’s hips too tightly and molded his body to the other man’s. Ivan’s hands scrabbled around Alfred’s back until one of them reached down the back of his thigh, catching the back of his knee to lift him up a bit as Ivan slammed him against the wall, continuing his attack on Alfred’s mouth. 

Alfred grunted and half-moaned something into Ivan’s mouth, arching his body up against Ivan’s. His hands skittered down Ivan’s exposed chest to his belt buckle and he gave the Russian a mighty shove backwards, pushing him until they toppled back onto the couch. There was a short burst of pain as Alfred’s teeth collided with Ivan’s but it only excited him more and he started to undo the belt. Ivan grasped the bottom of his shirt and jerked it off over his head and then—

The shirt was still hanging around Alfred’s arms by the sleeves when Ivan caught his wrists and pulled his hands away.

"No." He was panting slightly, high color in those pale cheeks, his lips starting to swell from their heated kissing. Alfred whined like a dog and strained against the grip.

"Ivan come on, don’t be a dick, let go."

Instead, Ivan gripped one wrist even tighter and pulled Alfred to his feet, hauling him across the room to the mirror in the entry hall. He showed Alfred the circular scar on his shoulder, just at the base of his neck, which looked almost perforated.

"No."

"Oh come on, that was a millennium ago!" Alfred protested, trying to free himself again. "It doesn’t even matter Ivan—"

"It is one of many! I won’t do this again," he said, letting go of Alfred and turning his face away. "I won’t hurt you like that again, Alfredi—" They held their breath.

"Say it," Alfred whispered. "Say it."

"Alfredik." His voice was barely audible and the whole house descended into silence following that one word.

"I loved you, you know," Alfred said, his eyes too bright, too shimmering. "I really fucking loved you, Vanya."

"That’s why I had to leave," Ivan went on that in that same hoarse tone, nearly too quiet to be heard. "I knew you never would."

"It killed me," Alfred said, his voice tinged with rage and bitterness. "It killed me when you  left."

"But it didn’t," Ivan insisted, looking up to meet Alfred’s gaze intently. "Look at you! You are doing so much better than you ever did with me. You are healthy and you have a nice house and a good job—you are happy."

"I miss you," Alfred whispered and he trembled. Ivan’s hand twitched; he wanted so badly to reach out and comfort Alfred, but he didn’t dare.

"I…" He couldn’t lie to Alfred. He’d done it plenty before, but he couldn’t now. They’d been through that hell together; he couldn’t hold the truth from Alfred now. "I miss you too, little bunny. Every day I missed you, for a long time." The silence weighed heavily on him, almost suffocating; why didn’t Alfred speak! Break it! When he looked up, the man was crying. He stood completely still, tears dripping down his cheeks, biting his lower lip to stop it from quivering in the way that had always broken Ivan’s heart, even in the midst of their worst, most violent fights. Now he did it—opened his arms and pulled Alfred in. Alfred clutched at him and pressed his face into Ivan’s rumpled dress shirt, hiccuping and sniffling unabashedly. 

"I love you," he hiccuped, coughing and choking before breaking off into more weeping. "I love you Ivan, I love you, I love you.."

"I love you too, my joy," Ivan got out, hugging Alfred against him. He buried his nose in the soft, golden blond hair and his chest ached so painfully he wished he could tear his heart out and stop it from feeling any of this. Alfred sobbed and Ivan held him tighter, probably too tight, but Alfred didn’t protest. Eventually he quieted down and just stood there in Ivan’s embrace, his fingers wadding up Ivan’s shirt in his hands. 

"You’re going to leave," he said dully. 

"I have to," Ivan said, lifting his face from Alfred’s hair.

"You don’t. You could stop being so fucking noble and just give me what I want. What you want." But the bite was gone from Alfred’s voice. He only barely stopped himself from sounding like the pleading little boy he felt like.

"Until what? Until you actually do put a gun to my temple? Until I really do beat you over the head with a faucet pipe? Until we are so emotionally broken down and worn out that we can’t feel anything at all anymore?" Ivan shook his head. He drew back and gripped Alfred’s shoulders. "I love you, sweet fish," he said. Alfred’s eyes welled up anew; he tried to look furious but he couldn’t—he could see the truth in Ivan’s eyes. Whatever the man might be doing to him now, he wasn’t lying. "And that’s why I have to go," he said softly, his thumb brushing over Alfred’s cheek. "One of us has to. I will go back to my home and you will stay here and we will be as two opposing forces—fine on our own, but inevitably, fatally destructive to each other." Alfred almost asked if Ivan still lived in Russia. He’d moved away from the town they met in, but Alfred didn’t know where. The question fell by the wayside though; it wasn’t appropriate to ask now.

"I hate this," Alfred said, grabbing Ivan’s wrist. "It’s not fair!"

"Many things are not fair, Alfredik." His eyes moved from Alfred’s face and Alfred knew he was looking at the scar again. He remembered getting it—and he remembered how Ivan hadn’t taken him to the doctor’s until he’d finished fucking him into their lumpy old mattress. Alfred hadn’t wanted it any other way, but the thing had gotten infected and he knew Ivan had always blamed himself. That had been near the end. Somehow, between the two of them, Ivan was the more sensitive one. He couldn’t take their constant games of hurting each other anymore and then being loving like it had never happened—laughing about it even! They had laughed about hurting each other, between them and with their rough-hewn friends and to people who gave them queer looks and probably though they needed therapy (maybe they did). 

Alfred pressed Ivan’s palm to his cheek and closed his eyes.

"Go then," he said in a low voice. "Go and be successful—you deserve it, Ivan. We both do," he added as an afterthough. "That or neither of us do—but here we are, so I guess that’s irrelevant." Ivan kissed his forehead and Alfred held his breath, to capture this moment in every excruciating detail, so that even when he was seventy years old, he could close his eyes and remember this second, with Ivan’s lips cool and damp against his forehead, his fringe brushing the underside of the Russian’s considerable nose—slightly crooked from where it had been broken multiple times, at least once by Alfred himself. 

"Goodbye, my joy," Ivan murmured. He almost said something else. He almost added ‘I will always love you’, but he stopped himself. There was no sense in tormenting Alfred with that—to give him false hope that if they ever met again, things could be different. In Ivan’s mind, separation was the only recourse. He wouldn’t allow himself to hurt Alfred as he had before. 

"Goodbye babe," Alfred said. "I’ll see you ‘round, huh?" He drew back, distancing himself from Ivan, and flashed a crooked, half-hearted smile. Ivan tried, but he failed even more than Alfred.

"See you," he said. He exited the house and Alfred stood in the hall, watching him walk away into the pleasantly warm spring evening. He paused halfway down the garden path and turned, raising a hand in farewell. Alfred, his shirt crumpled on the floor beneath the mirror, didn’t return it. He thought to, he tried, but it was too late. Ivan was walking away down the sidewalk. Slowly, Alfred approached the door. He stood in the frame a long while, far beyond his ability to see Ivan’s retreating back, hands buttoning up his shirt as he went.

The look in his eyes was difficult—perhaps impossible—to discern. When his feet began to ache from standing on the base of the door frame so long, he came back to Earth and shut the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The “perforated” scar is from Ivan biting Alfred, if that wasn’t clear
> 
> 2\. The pet names Ivan uses—bunny, fish, my joy—are all Russian pet names (Since they’re speaking in Russian I didn’t translate. Also I don’t speak Russian.)
> 
>  
> 
> [On tumblr](http://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/113860028765/fruk-for-12-or-rusame-for-40)


	9. Between-meeting Make-outs [TurkFra]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TurkFra prompt from tumblr: "Might I request some 'between meetings' makeouts?"

                Francis had worn light blue to the meeting, and dammit, Sadik had told him about wearing light blue! It accentuated his eyes and looked fantastically flattering against his golden hair and it was far too distracting to be allowed. So Turkey was already silently fuming at the Frenchman when he took his seat, and as he spread his papers out over his allotted space on the table, Francis glanced over his shoulder to smile at him. Sadik could tell from that look the damn tease knew exactly what he was doing. He narrowed his eyes and turned his attention to his papers, until Tunisia sat down nearby and started up a chat.

                The next time he met France’s gaze, the blond blew him a little kiss and Sadik scowled at him. Francis shrugged and turned his attention to the front of the room, where Bangladesh called the room to order. He shifted in his seat and Turkey was reminded unhelpfully of when Francis had been younger and would sit in his lap, never mind that even then he’d been a bit old for that. Neither of them had been bringing up that point in any seriousness.

                Growling to himself, he grabbed his pen to take notes. Unlike some lazy asses, he was actually going to get something done.

                France, for his part, was in the beginning stages of a fun little game he liked to play called “How Rabidly Horny Can I Make My Partner Before They Can’t Take It?” Right now he’d put Sadik at a 3/10 (10/10 being where he was pinned against the wall and fucked senseless. 10/10 was where he like to be.). He was taking notice, but it wasn’t an issue yet, it was just an annoyance. That was perfect—France liked to play the game slow, and he’d built up a lot of finesse with it over the years. He had plenty of time.

                Because T came after F and they were seated alphabetically as always, Turkey naturally had to let his gaze drift past France to pay attention to what was going on at the front of the conference room. That was how he was able to take notice of Francis nibbling on the end of his pen. It was something he did often—Turkey had once accused him of having an oral fixation, to which France shrugged and said yes, he probably did. He had then added, with a coy look, that he liked putting things in his mouth. But remembering that now wasn’t awfully helpful.

                France slipped his phone out of his pocket and set it on the table, tapping out a message with one hand without much looking away from Yemen’s PowerPoint. Moments later, Turkey’s phone buzzed.

                [text: Frenchbread] Are you busy after this? <3

                [text: Sadik] Don’t pla

                [text: Sadik] Don’t play coy you know we have another meeting after this one

                [text: Frenchbread] :)

                Turkey looked up and France smiled blithely at him from his seat, shifting again and crossing his legs. His long, elegant legs, which were brilliantly complimented in black slacks. Sadik wrote a little more aggressively with his pen when copying down Yemen’s quarterly GDP figures.

                He got through another half an hour before his phone vibrated again. He looked at it, noticed Francis’ name, and decided not to bother. It would have been much easier if he weren’t so prone to curiosity, and if it weren’t tugging at the corner of his mind, begging him to look so he could see what Francis had said. Briefly glancing from side-to-side, as if someone might be paying any mind to what he was doing, he woke his phone up. He went to his recent messages. Francis’ name was lit up, signifying an unopened message. His eyes scanned to see what had been said, but the only thing displaying was {media content}.

                That son of a bitch.

                Now he _had_ to open it. He tapped France’s name and was immediately rewarded of a clearly self-taken shot of France’s side. There was nothing on him except a bit of lilac-toned lingerie with black lace. The shot, taken from the side, denied Sadik a view of the front, but hinted at plenty. _Did he just have this sitting around on his phone?_

                He looked up, and Francis wasn’t looking at him, but he noticed the slight curve of a smile on the Frenchman’s lips as he wrote something down. Probably an errant scribble, nothing relating to Poland’s talk at all. That asshole.

                _5/10_ , Francis thought as he leaned back in his seat with a tiny smirk.

                After the first one, Turkey had expected to get another picture. But he didn’t. He was so surprised that he had to check Francis’ messages again, which meant he got another look at the one photo he did have. He knew if he scrolled far enough up, he could find more, but he wasn’t going to torment himself that way.

                France was twirling a lock of hair around one finger, and whether or not it was intended to, it reminded Sadik that he liked having it pulled in the throes of passion. He had once said that was one reason he kept it long, and Turkey had never figured out if he was joking or not.

                He shifted in his seat, tapping his pen against his notebook, starting to sense a real problem with all these thoughts. Francis, stretched out in his seat in all his careless elegance, didn’t seem to be bothered at all, but Sadik knew he could be, if one knew the right strings to pull. It had been easier when France was younger and less experienced, but he prided himself in still being able to make the Frenchman beg, red-faced and squirming. Not that France had a lot of shame on that front; he just saved it up for good moments because he knew how much it stroked Sadik’s ego, as well as his libido.

                [text: Frenchbread] I’m bored :p I want to go play.

                [text: Sadik] Stop trying to sext me that was terrible

                [text: Frenchbread] I didn’t say I wanted to play with you ;p

                Turkey looked up, his brow furrowed. That dick, he was just doing this to rile Sadik up! Even if he knew that though, the idea of Francis going off to be fondled by someone else—someone who couldn’t do it as well, who didn’t know him, who didn’t know what he _liked_ —stirred something possessive in him.

                It seemed like years before the meeting was wrapped up and Turkey went over to where France was taking his sweet damn time putting his things away.

                “Republic of France,” he said stiffly. “I believe we have things to discuss.”

                “Yes, of course, Republic of Turkey,” Francis agreed in a tone far too nonchalant, slipping his tablet into his briefcase.

                “There’s an open conference room down the hall, I’m sure.” If there wasn’t, they would find some place, but he was going to have a talking-to with France about this sort of blatantly provocative behavior. Francis just nodded pleasantly and followed Turkey down the hall, into a much smaller, empty meeting room.

                “Now look here,” Sadik began as soon as the door had shut behind them. “You are doing this on purpose—don’t you even try to deny it, I know you are—and I do not have the time or the patience—” Francis had set his briefcase down and was leaning back against the table, legs spread, loosening his tie.

                “Oh yes, I suppose I have been behaving rather poorly,” he sighed in faux distress, running a hand back through his hair.

                “You can’t go around acting like this and expecting everyone to fall to their knees,” Sadik snapped, going over to him. “It’s absolutely immoral and disgusting and—” The rest of what he was going to say was swallowed by Francis’ lips as Turkey grabbed the back of the blond’s head and pulled him into a heated kiss. He pushed France up onto the table so he could sit, and nipped at his lower lip. France arched his back and his knees pressed against Turkey’s hips, responsive as always. That was one of the beautiful things about France—being physical with him was never one-sided. Sadik pulled him closer and Francis pressed against him, letting Sadik take the lead with their kissing. He tasted like his coffee, which France had a particular weakness for.

                They panted for breath around the kisses, and as Turkey started tipping Francis back on the table, the hateful minx slipped out of his grip and touched his feet down on the floor again. Suddenly empty-handed, Sadik turned and France trailed his fingers over Sadik’s side as he started to move away.

                “Oh, this is so unprofessional,” Francis lamented in a voice like a female lead of the 1950s sleeping with her boss. He wasn’t facing Turkey, so he saw no need to hide the wicked smirk on his face. “You’re so _right_ , Republic of Turkey, I’ve seen the error of my ways. I’ll never misbehave again!” He took another step and Turkey suddenly lunged forward and grabbed his wrist.

                “Don’t pull that, Francis, it’s too late now!” he said. Francis turned to give Sadik a sultry pout over his shoulder.

                “Oh, but we could be in so much trouble,” he protested. Turkey responded by backing him against the wall, and he could see the glimmer of excitement shining in France’s eyes.

                “Trouble is your middle name, isn’t it?” he said. France let the devious, inviting look spread openly across his face.

                “Something like that,” he said, hooking his fingers under Turkey’s belt and pulling him closer. When Sadik kissed him again, it was hard, and they were pressed against the wall with no space between them, just the way Francis liked it. If Sadik hadn’t been so caught up in Francis’ warm, sweet lips against his, and the teeth grazing his tongue, and his lover’s solid chest against his, he would have noted the way France’s arms didn’t go around his neck or waist, and how his hands weren’t roving around, greedily taking in everything they could, and that would have given him some warning for when Francis wriggled out of his arms a second time. “Gracious, we’re going to be late for the next meeting,” he said innocently, flipping his phone out. “We’d better go, or someone will be missing us.”

                “So we’ll be late!” Turkey exclaimed, staring, dumbfounded, after his absolute bastard of a partner.

                “Tsk, that won’t do,” France said, shaking his head. “We have to set an example for the younger nations you know, Sadik.” Oh Turkey was going to _kill_ him. “I hope you’re not busy after this one,” France remarked, unable to stop the smirk from quirking the corner of his mouth as he took his leave.

                7/10.

                [text: Sadik] I’m going to destroy you when this conference is over

                [text: Frenchbread] I’m counting on it mon loup <3 <3 <3 ;)

                Things should be just about perfect by the time they were let off to go back to their hotel rooms, Francis thought with a smirk, sliding his phone back into his pocket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [On tumblr ](http://theimpiousalliance.tumblr.com/post/142611240242/might-i-request-some-between-meetings-makeouts)


	10. Soulmates AU [PruFra]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PruFra + The one where your soulmate’s name is on one wrist and your enemy’s name is on the other and you have no clue which is which.
> 
> Prussia by [Nuriko](http://landforces.tumblr.com/)

Francis was the country of love, and as such, he felt like he had been horrifyingly robbed when it came to soulmates—because as far as he knew, he had two enemies and no actual soulmate.

Arthur and Gilbert.

Those were the names he had sported on skinny pale wrists since birth, and he couldn’t say either of them were anywhere near being something romantic to him. He wavered constantly back and forth on who might be the soulmate and who the enemy, but the effect was the same, because he fought with both of them.

Sometimes, he thought Gilbert must be his soulmate, because they fought less than he and Arthur.

Other times, he thought the opposite.

Either way, his heart mourned the absence of someone who truly understood him. There was a connection with a soulmate that no one else could understand. In the good moments with Gilbert, when they got along, he thought maybe—but they would always come back to fighting. It wasn’t even personal sometimes—they were just too close, elbowing and jostling each other as they grew and stretched across the map of Europe, butting heads with whomever happened to be in their way.

When Gilbert’s army marched into Paris in 1871, breaking into quite possibly the most tumultuous century of Francis’ life, he derisively asked whether the man thought he’d come to be Francis’ knight in shining armor. Naturally, he had not, and the slaughter of aristocratic prisoners that preceded the Prussian troops—for fear of their joining the enemy—said enough to that point.

“Enough, Frankreich,” Gilbert said, when Francis refused to calm down or accept his loss. He shoved the Frenchman down onto his knees. The room was filled with the sound of his labored breathing, and Gilbert could see the livid scar around Francis’ throat from the time his own people had ceremonially executed him. During troubled times—which seemed constant these days, for Francis—he noticed it grew more noticeable. Right now, it stood out like a flaming brand against Francis’ creamy skin. “You lose.”

“You. Have. No. _Right,_ ” Francis hissed, glaring. It wasn’t so different a look, in Gilbert’s opinion, from that of a petulant child.

“I have every right,” he said, sheathing his weapon with a smug smirk, because it was his right to gloat now. “I’m stronger. That’s the only right I need.”

“You need to mind your own business,” Francis snarled.

“It’s hardly _my_ fault if your politicians declare a war they can’t win,” Gilbert said innocently.

“You goaded—!”

“I played you,” Gilbert snapped, his eyes flashing dark. “And you fell for it. That sounds like _your_ problem, Frank.” Francis’ pretty blue eyes squinted and his jaw moved, but he kept silent, even on the nickname.

“What do you have to gain?” he asked. “You won’t stay here. You know you can’t hold Paris.”

“It’s not about conquering,” Gilbert said, leaning back against the dining table. “It’s about teaching you a lesson. I have what I want. We’ll leave when we’re ready.”

All at once, Francis’ struggling ceased, and his face grew calm, and Gilbert’s bones shivered a little. He had the upper hand, it was clear, the cards laid out—but he knew that look, and he knew it meant Francis had found something (something, Gilbert began to fear, he had overlooked). The Frenchman rose to his feet, elegant, poised once more, and Gilbert briefly pushed down the urge to knock him down again.

“You came a long way just for that,” Francis said.

“Not so far. I liked to think of it as a nice stroll,” Gilbert returned, mentally testing his reflex for reaching his weapon. Francis didn’t have the hope of winning a fight—he had been disarmed before this meeting. Not that Gilbert had never seen the damage those fingernails could do to a person’s face when he was really in a temper.

“It must have bothered you quite a bit, if you felt the need to go through all this effort,” Francis went on. Oh, how Gilbert hated it when he spoke like this! He had a plan, a purpose, but he wouldn’t reveal it until he had taken his sweet time leading up to it. He fought not to show impatience.

“Anything for you, Frankreich,” he said with a lopsided grin, showing his teeth.

“Yes, anything for me,” Francis agreed, smiling his crocodile smile, that to the untrained eye, might look sweet. “We do quite a bit for each other, don’t we?” Gilbert pressed his left hand down against the tabletop.

“A lot of trouble,” he said, cursing himself for not coming up with a better return. Francis had stepped closer, and Gilbert refused to step back (and his escape was blocked now by the table), but he wanted to.

“Still. A lot of effort, don’t you think? Even when we’ve tried so hard to get along.” Closer, again. He could see the red rimming Francis’ sleepless eyes, and for a heartbeat, wondered if his insomnia was bothering him again. He wondered when the last time Francis slept at all was—he didn’t seem to have done since the revolution. “I find it touching, don’t you?”

“I find it annoying, mostly,” Gilbert said. What farce—his strength was on the battlefield, not this deceptive, serpentine war of words that Francis liked to play. He had always hated those word games at Versailles, and how skilled his adversary was. Why not hone a _useful_ skill, he had asked?

At once, Francis was before him, and he could see the furious red at his throat, and smell the wine on his breath—there was little else. Shards of those dark blue eyes dug into him, and his left hand curled up around the edge of the table, arm sliding back towards his body.

Francis’ gaze softened, and Gilbert sensed imminent danger, compounded by how his mind was at odds with the animal instinct in his chest on how to respond.

“Annoying, but still you continue,” Francis murmured, tilting his head slightly, so a loose lock of golden hair fell against his cheek. “How much you put up with, for my sake.” Francis wasn’t _really_ fool enough to think he could start a fight here and win, was he? Surely not! The days of Napoleon were over, he was supposed to be past that kind of rampant aggression.

“Like I said,” Gilbert returned in a subdued, almost sulky tone, “anything for you.” He held Francis’ eyes, and too late felt the fingers against his wrist, jerking his sleeve up. He attempted to leap into action, but Francis pushed him back, pinning his wrist to the table.

“Anything for me,” he repeated, reading his name off Gilbert’s wrist in his own curly, loopy handwriting. Even with his non-dominant hand, Gilbert managed to whip out a dagger and wedge it between Francis’ ribs to fend him off.

“You think you’re proving a point?” he snarled, using one foot to push Francis back so he could straighten up. “That means nothing.”

“It means something,” Francis wheezed, giving Gilbert a smirk poisoned with bitterness and regret. He freed Gilbert’s dagger and pressed a hand over the wound. “Don’t you know?” Of course he didn’t—it was common practice for Nations to constantly hide their wrists. No one wanted the weakness of their soulmate to be free knowledge. Enemies, they had lots of those. But no one wanted to be linked to anyone else, because who could say which was which? Releasing the stab wound to roll up his own sleeve, Francis freely presented Gilbert with his wrist, where Gilbert’s own full name was branded.

“So we’re enemies, are you really shocked?” Gilbert refused to play this stupid game, where Francis thought he’d get some sort of—whatever he was expecting—for trying to make Gilbert believe they were soulmates. His right wrist burned.

“Hardly. But you should know, my other one is _le petit conanrd._ ” There was only one person Gilbert knew Francis to regularly refer to as “the little asshole”—Arthur J. Kirkland. He burst into laughed.

“Boy you really got screwed, didn’t you Franny? And for somebody who actually _likes_ this stuff!” He laughed until his muscles, sore from fighting, protested.

“What about yours?” Francis asked. “Your other one?”

“Are you hoping that one’s you too?” Gilbert taunted.

“I’m wondering if yours matches Ivan’s,” Francis said too innocently.

 _Scheisse._ Gilbert always knew Ivan’s stupid interest in Francis was going to bite him in the ass sooner or later.

“Does it?” Francis pressed while Gilbert clawed the table. “I think he already knows which of his is which.”

“It doesn’t. Change. Anything,” Gilbert said, releasing the table and straightening up. “I don’t give a flying fuck if we’re soulmates or not. You’re an asshole, and that’s never going to change.”

“I should think we’d get along famously then,” Francis said sardonically. “What’s it they say about two peas in a pod?”

“We’re nothing alike,” Gilbert said.

“No, we’re not,” Francis agreed, equally as cold. Gilbert fished a handkerchief out and threw it at Francis, who pressed it to his side. “When are you leaving?”

“When I feel like it,” Gilbert said. He strode past, to the door, then paused. “After all…why not spend a few weeks in the most romantic city in the world?” His tone was meant to cut, and Francis gave him that bitter smile again.

“Enjoy your trip home, darling. I’m sure I’ll see you again soon, on this side of the border or the other,” he said. Gilbert’s gaze was hard, and he took his leave, giving Francis the freedom to slump to the floor, clutching his side, and wondering where God got off on all these nasty tricks he played.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [On tumblr](http://thebeautyofliberty.tumblr.com/post/159235100092/17-the-one-where-your-soulmates-name-is-on-one)


	11. Soulmates AU [FraIre]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FraIre + the one where once you meet your soulmate, it’s physically uncomfortable to be apart from them for too long
> 
> Ireland OC by [Ryan](http://eyesofanirishman.tumblr.com/)

The first time Francis got a headache that was problematic, it was on his way back from a visit to Hibernia. It wasn’t all-consuming, but a constant buzz in the back of his mind, sapping his energy and making him easily irritated.

Back home, he went to Rome.

“Perhaps you’re sick,” he said. “Go to Apollo’s temple and pray.” He loved giving that advice, even though he seldom followed it. It was another way of him telling Francis to go handle his own problems. He listened, but instead of going to Apollo’s temple, he went to a heretic—Christian—priest he knew, and prayed there.

A few days later, the headache abated.

But it became a recurring issue that Francis eventually associated with voyaging. He had never been a sickly child, and he did not want to be thought of as such, so the problem was something he pondered often, with little success.

What if he was just doomed his whole life to suffer these aches?

As he got older and travel became more and more necessary for politics and diplomacy, he started picking out more of a pattern, but was reluctant to attempt to diagnose. Every leader he’d ever had had told him Nations didn’t have soulmates—it just wasn’t. It had always felt desperately unfair to him, but he accepted it, and filed their advice with everyone who’d ever called him airheaded, or too dreamy, or childish.

This injustice was something he and Rian had discussed at length, over readings of poetry and the sounds of old love ballads, lamenting that they were destined to be alone forever, without another half. Still, it was something they accepted as truth.

The headaches were getting worse though.

When he said goodbye to Rian in Dublin, he dreaded the voyage home, because he feared he would get saddled with another migraine. He had been here to help Rian with some fighting, and he grief at parting was doubled by his reluctance to endure the trip home. They embraced, and gave bisous, and Francis promised to visit again as soon as he could. As they left, he reached down and squeezed Rian’s hand, and hoped to convey something of his desire to stay with his gaze, but then it was time to go. Sighing aplenty over their separation, he boarded _The Spanish Lady_ and watched the rocky Irish coast disappear on the horizon.

When he woke up the next morning, his head felt like it had been split with an axe. He rolled out of bed with a gasp, hitting the floor and clutching his head. Instantly, his agonized, desperate mind seized the explanation he had bantered around his semiconscious for years. Perhaps he was merely groping frantically for something that would make this go away—anything.  

The Minister of Foreign Affairs found him on his knees, sobbing, clawing at his temples in his quarters.

“Take me back!” he wailed as soon as the man came close. He lunged up and grabbed ahold of his doublet. “Turn us around, take me back! We must go back to Dublin!”

“Is it the pain, monsieur?” Dubois asked, alarmed. “We are halfway back to France, we will be there on the morrow.”

“No, take me back,” Francis begged, tears pooling in his eyes. “God, please, take me back, take me back! Make it go away!”

“We will have you seen by a doctor as soon as we arrive home, monsieur,” Dubois soothed, helping Francis back into bed. He was determined, and Francis was in too much pain to argue. He curled up in a ball on his bed and focused on breathing. The Minister of Foreign Affairs brought him water, and a cold cloth for his head and eyes, but it brought no relief.

He spent hours trying to muster his focus to pen a letter to Rian. He thought of his old friend’s comforting voice, and gentle hands, and the pain drove him to tears again, wishing for his presence even if it didn’t magically take away this pain.

_Rian—_

_My pain at our parting is nothing short of agonizing_

_I can barely think, do you…?_

_I have thought so much about what causes this_

_Tell me when I can come to Ireland again_

_I think you are my soulmate_

All his elegance and skill surrendered to the might of the migraine and in frustration, he shredded the letter, cursing his infantile reliance on fairy tales and love stories for comfort.

 _Grow up!_ he told himself.

He went back to bed, and when they arrived in France, Dubois tried to reassure him by telling him they would get him to the finest doctors in Paris.

“Paris?” he screeched, grabbing violent hold of the man’s clothing again. “I can’t wait that long! It must be now, here, do _something! Do something!”_

The gave him medication and took temperatures and tested reflexes and even gave him a leech treatment, though it was out of date and hardly anyone believed in humors anymore.

In the broken dreams where he slept, he dreamed of Rian, surrounded by a silvery light, dressed in white. He reached out a hand and when he put his palm to Francis’ forehead, the pain evanesced. A forest sprouted up around them, thick with foliage and broad-trunked trees, and when Rian spoke, in words that Francis could not fathom, he spoke with several voices. He touched Francis between the eyes, and the blond fell asleep, but when he woke in reality, the pain had not gone anywhere.

“Oh, God, Rian, make it stop,” Francis begged his mattress. “Make it stop, make it stop! Rian, please!” If it was him, if it was that–? There was no one else who could save him.

By the time he decided to go back to Ireland, he didn’t care if Rian could fix it or not—someone was going to put a dagger through his heart, or stop this, and either way, he wanted it to be Rian. He sent the Minister of Foreign Affairs back to Paris, and boarded the ship back to Dublin himself.

When he arrived, he orders his valet to take him straight to the city hall. The man had to prop him up while he demanded to know where Rian was, so exhausted had the relentless assault on his head left him.

“In the hospital,” he was told. “Nearly a week now.”

“Hospital?” Francis asked, stiffening. “What—is he okay?”

“No one knows. Is this official business?” The secretary poised his quill over a bit of parchment paper. Francis paused, then decided to be truthful.

“It’s personal,” he said, blinking rapidly. “I’ll make it quick. I won’t disturb him.” The valet got them a carriage down to the hospital, not trusting Francis to ride a horse without falling off. Rian had a semi-private room, shielded from the other two occupants by curtains.

“Francis!” He reacted with genuine surprise. “How did you know…?”

But Francis was taken with something else—the sudden, shocking absence of pain. He staggered forward, grabbing feebly at Rian’s bedframe with a gasp, tears yet again springing to his eyes, this time in relief. He wanted to start sobbing again.

“Francis! What’s wrong? Don’t tell me you’re sick too!” Francis grimaced and somehow managed to turn it into a smile of sorts.

“I’ve just…had the worst headache…” he said. “What’s wrong with you?” He eased himself down onto the bed, sitting at Rian’s side.

“This pain in my side,” Rian said, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. “I…it’s been so bad, I thought I’d been poisoned, but no one’s found anything yet…”

“And…how do you feel now? Does it hurt still?” Francis looked up at that familiar freckled face, feeling the fearful tightness in his chest loosen.

“It…no. Actually it’s…it’s alright now…” Rian blinked, as if finding himself wondering what he was doing in a hospital. A smile pressed at Francis’ lips, as much as he tried to control it, and Rian made the connection. He shook his head. “Oh no. Don’t look at me like that. Don’t tell me your headache is gone.”

“It felt like I was dying,” Francis said. “I wanted to die. I came here to fix it or die.”

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“But it’s gone,” Francis said, smiling. “You know what this means?” He leaned forward, putting a hand on either side of Rian.

“What’s that?”

“You _have_ to give me a kiss!” He referenced a bet he had tried to make weeks ago. Rian snorted and pushed halfheartedly at his shoulder.

“I don’t _have_ to do anything, Bonnefoy.”

“But you want to,” Francis purred, leaning in. Rian turned his face, so all Francis got was his cheek, but he was content with that. He sighed and Rian, sensing safety, turned back to him. “I think I’m going to have to get you an apartment in Paris,” he said.

“You think so?” Rian asked. “I can’t spend all my time in Paris and be your courtesan, Francis. You have to come here too.” Francis groaned in his throat and wanted to whine, but he knew it was only fair. Rian took a quiet breath and put a hand over Francis’. “We’ll make it work,” he assured him.

“We’ll make it work,” Francis echoed in agreement, touching his forehead to Rian’s. “We’ll find a way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [On tumblr](http://thebeautyofliberty.tumblr.com/post/159246499132/22-or-23)


	12. Mentally Undressing You [TurkFra]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Made-up word prompt: Gymnophoria - The sensation that someone is mentally undressing you.

Frankly, Sadik found the idea that they were even considering an alliance in Europe laughable. Why bother—it was all to belong to them someday anyway. Nevertheless, the idea had piqued the sultan’s interest, and several of the pashas agreed, so Sadik was sent to scope out the most powerful Europeans and see who might make a decent, or at least useful, ally.

Which meant he sat through a lot of fucking masses.

He didn’t know if it was just customary to share church services with a potential ally, or if they were carrying it out for his sake, but it grew old very quickly. Which is why he now sat in Notre Dame, trying not to look openly bored, as the bishop carried out services in Latin, a language Sadik barely understood.

He had been fighting the urge to look around the room for a while, as he had been seated in the first pew, so everyone would see, and know that he wasn’t paying attention. Eventually, he decided on just a quick peek to the side, that could possibly be construed as him stretching his neck a little. That was when he noticed France wasn’t paying attention either.

He had always seemed the devout little Catholic, but he wasn’t watching the bishop, at least not in this moment—he was looking at Sadik. When their eyes met, he hastily turned his attention front again, and Sadik squinted, trying to tell if his face looked pinker than usual.

That was better—now he had a game to play.

“Rasheed,” he murmured to the man beside him, without turning. “Tell me if the little Frank is looking at us.” It was a few moments before he had a response.

“He is looking, Your Excellency.” A smile quirked the corner of Sadik’s mouth.

“How is he looking?” A long pause as Rasheed tried to work out a good answer.

“He looks…intent.”

“Mm intent on what, I wonder?” There was a pointed cough from the pew behind them, and Sadik stopped talking. He nudged Rasheed with his shoulder, and received a return for each time he noticed Francis looking at them.

At the end of the service, Sadik stood and stretched, and sought out his potential ally as the nobility of Paris began to clear out.

“You know, I was under the impression your services were to cleanse and purify the mind,” he observed to Francis with a smug look. The younger Nation lifted his chin and gave Sadik an imperious huff.

“They are,” he said. “But I imagine they hold somewhat less interest for you.”

“How do you expect your mind to be purified for the coming week, if you spend the whole service undressing me with your eyes?” Blue eyes flew open wide and France was definitely redder than he had been a moment ago.

Sadik had dressed ornately for the occasion, both as a sign of respect for the religious service and to show off his grand wealth to his potential allies. He had a lot of things to take off—enough to occupy France for a three-hour mass.

“You are mist—”

“Save your protestations,” Sadik said, lifting his palm up. “I’ll take it as a compliment.” Francis grasped for words, and Sadik’s smile grew a fraction. “Don’t feel bad,” he said smoothly. “I understand the allure of the exotic. After all, what tastes better than the forbidden fruit?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [On tumblr](http://splendidanatolia.tumblr.com/post/160400460804/gymnophoria-the-sensation-that-someone-is)


	13. How's the Divorce? [TurkAus]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Made-up word prompt: Quidnunc - One who always has to know what is going on.

For some, unhappiness was a thing to tuck away, to endure privately, to keep hidden from the prying eyes of the world. For Sadik, his unhappiness oozed out of every pore; he was living embodiment of “misery loves company”—and right now, he had finally reached the trough of his ongoing misery as a declining empire.

They had all agreed to meet at a coffee shop just about halfway between Budapest and Vienna—the terms of the war had been talked out already, but Germany seemed to think there was something diplomatic that could be salvaged after their ignominious defeat. But he had gotten up from the table, so Sadik—feeling no need to hold back on account of his overflowing bitterness—decided to indulge in his ever-present curiosity about other people’s lives.

“So about your divorce,” he said to Anneliese, dropping another sugar cube into his coffee. “How _is_ Elizabeta taking that? I haven’t had the chance to speak with her about it.”

Anneliese looked down at her coffee, breathing evenly, and trying to remind herself she was not in the place or the state for a fight.

“It’s not something we discuss,” she said shortly, pressing her hands against the sides of the mug until the heat nearly burned her hands.

“Not discuss?” Sadik snorted. “Please. When a couple is getting divorced, that’s _all_ they discuss. Unless you haven’t even spoken to her since Versailles.”

“It’s really none of your business,” Anneliese said, a bit more forcefully than usual. A tremor went through her left leg, an involuntary shudder, and she reached down to press a hand against her knee. It happened so often these days she didn’t dare walk more than a few feet without aid. “Just because we are no longer together doesn’t mean she’d ever come crawling back to you—especially now that you’re disgraced.”

“Oh, I never want to see Elizabeta crawl,” Sadik said, drumming his fingers briefly on the table. “She’s no fun if you don’t haul her in kicking and screaming.” Austria breathed out heavily through her nose, resisting the urge to tell him not to speak of her (ex) wife that way. Turkey took her silence as a chance to press again. “So then…she’s not distraught, is she? One might even argue she’s…cut the noose.”

“That’s not a saying,” Anneliese corrected at once, her knuckles going white around the teacup. “And our partnership was mutually beneficial—”

“Oh come on, don’t expect me to believe—”

“—strove to make equal developments in both countries—” Austria raised her voice to talk over Sadik.

“—because you thought she was loyal to you—”

“What’s going on here?” Ludwig had limped back over to their table with the pastry order both invalids had demanded, and was too tired to reach his full level of annoyance to find them fighting— _again._

“I have nothing else to say to this boor,” Anneliese said neatly, lifting her cup to sip her coffee.

“Anna’s bitter because Hungary doesn’t like her any better than she liked me,” Turkey said. Anneliese put her coffee cup down on the table with considerably more force than necessary.

“If it will shut you up, because you must always know everything, no, she is not terribly upset,” she said harshly, her nails scratching at the porcelain of the mug. “She is not one to be tied down, and I thought I could change that, but it was not the case. Are you satisfied now, can I finish my coffee in peace?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [On tumblr](http://splendidanatolia.tumblr.com/post/160399756329/quidnunc)


	14. Someone Who Never Laughs [Turkypt]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Made-up word prompts: Agelast- Someone who never laughs

Turkey’s booming laughter rang through the hallway. Moldova came running up, one of his officials in close pursuit of the young Nation.

“Egypt, you have to come see,” he said, pointing down the way, breathless with laughter and his run. “China and Iran have gotten stuck in the spinning door!”

Yasser followed him to the exit, where there was a group of Nations all crowded around the two pinned inside the stuck door. Sadik was beside himself with hysterics, and Iran was snarling something at him, but it was a bit hard to hear through the thick glass.

“Look at them!” he exclaimed to Yasser when he saw him approach. “They look like fish in a bowl!” He puffed his cheeks out and made a fish face at them, which earned another scowl from Iran, and an eyeroll from Yao. India tapped playfully on the glass and laughed.

Egypt tilted his head to the side a bit, regarding the pair in the door, but otherwise made no remark on it.

“Come on, that’s funny!” Sadik exclaimed to Yasser, gesturing at the door. Yasser shrugged his left shoulder.

“It’s going to make them late for dinner if no one can get them out.”

***

“Could you—fucking— _help_ here or something?” Turkey demanded. He was loaded up with groceries, staggering through Egypt’s door, with Anubis at his heels the whole way. “ _Shit—_ Yasser! You asshole! Get in here!”

The man in question was busy straightening up a bookshelf, and trusted Sadik to simply handle the situation, which may not have been his best decision.

There was promptly a crash and a thud from the kitchen, along with copious amounts of swearing in Turkish, and barking from Anubis. Yasser let out a short sigh, and abandoned his dusting to go see what had happened.

Sadik was sitting on his ass by the refrigerator, egg smeared all up the front of his shirt, milk pooling on the floor, and Anubis trying to decided what of the spilled food to eat first. Rubbing his head, which had presumably made forcible contact with the fridge, Sadik glared up at Yasser.

“Dammit, I told you to come help!”

“I thought you could handle it.”

Sadik looked at the dog half-consuming his shirt trying to get the egg off, and couldn’t hold back a laugh. While Egypt didn’t seem particularly upset about the mess in the kitchen—or the loss of some of the groceries—neither did he seem to revel in Turkey’s unfortunate situation.

“You’ve got to laugh a little,” Sadik urged. “Even I can admit it’s funny!” Yasser shrugged his left shoulder..

“I hope you’re going to clean that up.”

***

               “—and all he had to say was ‘Are you two dating?’ and they were off,” Sadik recounted, leaning an elbow against the table. Yasser stirred his coffee and glanced down at the small menu still on the table, wondering if he should order something to eat too.

               “Why was he even at the meeting? I thought Germany took care of all that,” he said.

               “I don’t know. And it’s not important—they can’t even agree on whether or when they’re together,” Turkey said. “Apparently they had broken up, but during the conversation they agreed to get back together, and then England said something and France took back their get-together and they went on until Lebanon had called the meeting to order again. Gilbert had dug out snacks before they were done. It was hysterical!”

               “You know I was there, right?” Yasser reminded him, watching Sadik take a sugar cube and opt to eat it rather than putting it in his coffee.

               “Yeah, but I don’t think you saw it,” he insisted. “Because you would have laughed. It was so funny!”

               “I heard it,” Egypt said. “It wasn’t that funny.”

               “Is there _anything_ you find funny?” Sadik exclaimed, raking a hand back through his hair. “Cripes, Yasser. Do you think it’s undignified to laugh or something?”

               “I find everything you do undignified, but that’s not the point,” Egypt replied calmly, picking up his coffee to have a sip. “I just don’t think it’s funny.”

               “There’s got to be _something_!”

               Yasser said nothing, and went back to silently contemplating whether he wanted a snack.

***

               “Hey, listen, there’s only one plug and I don’t know how this wifi password is supposed to work…” Sadik meandered out of the bathroom of their shared hotel suite, muttering half to himself. Many of the Nations chose to share, because it was one of their rare opportunities for close contact with one another, and it was cost-effective.

               Yasser had already hooked his computer up and was watching something on the screen, a half-smile on his face. Turkey froze where he was, wondering if there was a chance Egypt had not yet been alerted to his presence nearby. He had claimed he was going to take a nap, and retreated to the bedroom earlier.

               While he lingered in the doorway, weighing the likelihood, a miracle took place: He heard Yasser laugh. It was more of a giggle than anything else, which grew into a soft laugh, and he smiled at the screen. It was a magical moment.

               So naturally, Sadik ruined it.

               “Aha!” How he managed to keep quiet long enough to sneak up on the computer was a mystery, but several centuries of trying to figure out what tickled Egypt’s funny bone might have lent him an extra helping of patience. “I knew there was some—is that…is that a video of an otter? Were you laughing about a stupid animal video?”

               Yasser slammed the laptop shut and whipped around to squint villainously at Sadik.

               “It was funny, okay?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [On tumblr](http://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/160416491835/agelast-for-that-worddrabble-meme)
> 
>  
> 
> Remember to consider giving a reblog on tumblr if you like it! Help spread the word :)


	15. Lip Attraction [TurkByz]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Made-up word prompts: Cheiloproclitic - Being attracted to someones lips. 
> 
> Mama Greece/Byzantine Empire by [Ofhellas](http://ofhellas.tumblr.com/)

When Sadik first rode into Byzantine territory, he wasn’t sure what he had expected of the Nation. A robust man in his prime, maybe, or an old hag that had been around for centuries. It had never occurred to him it would be someone like Aspasia.

It threw him entirely off his game, and it was impossible to focus on diplomacy with Byzantium. Whenever she spoke the dry, needlessly complex language of diplomacy, his mind simply detached from the situation, and he watched her mouth move without hearing any of it. He heard her voice—her musical, exotic, sweet voice—but the words—the words meant nothing.

It was different in other situations—when she crossed words with him, or talked about philosophy. That was something he had never given much thought to, but when Aspasia theorized on the nature of man, or the universe, he would listen with rapt attention.

She never stopped him from trying to sit as close to her as he could, or visiting her of his own volition, or expressing his thinly veiled infatuation. Only when she was truly angry with him did she deny him these things. Otherwise, she seemed to treat it as the indulgence of a child—giving him what he wanted because it was easier than bothering to tell him no.

At night, back home in Anatolia, he laid awake and thought of his conquered lands, and wondered if he would trade them all for a kiss from Aspasia.

In his dreams, her hands were soft, but strong, and her lips were warm and tasted like apricots. She put her hand on his cheek, or dug her fingers into his hair, or wound her arms around his neck. She let him put his hands on her waist, and she was muscular and smelled like sea spray and wild flowers.

Alone, he would lick his lips and wonder how her kiss would be different from Muunokhoi’s. She was in a whole different league from them—she was an adult, and she looked like one of the Muses had stepped off a fine vase to grace Byzantium with her presence.

Their relationship was nothing as gentle as his imaginings.

Once in a while he wondered what they would kiss like in the heat of battle, but these vivid images always faded back into warm days by the Greek shores, and lounging around her palace with fruit and drinks.

He wondered, if she would ever kiss his forehead, or his cheek. A kiss on the forehead was something of utmost tenderness, though—he would probably sooner get a kiss on the lips. He might hope for a kiss on the cheek—she might tease him that far, yes?

If he found anything shameful in hoping for her to tease him just so he could get the kiss, it didn’t make itself known.

They were walking outside in the gardens, and had a seat in the grass, and Sadik watched Aspasia’s lips as she spoke about the king who had built the garden. He struggled to believe he was the only one who could feel the charged air, and he wondered what kind of empire he could be if he was too coward to kiss Byzantium.

At once, he made his decision, and lunged in, only to have his lips met with two of Aspasia’s fingers. Blocked.

“No, I don’t think so, little Turk,” she said. He was so lost that he had no reply, just stared, dazed, into her eyes.

“But I—”

“You are better than to surprise me like that,” she said. Cheeks darkening, he looked away.

“You won’t let me otherwise,” he muttered. “At least, I don’t think…”

“You would be right. You really must get over this little crush,” she said. “It won’t do you any good.” Sadik shook his head.

“I won’t.”

Aspasia sighed and leaned back on her hands.

“Oh, I remember being young and foolhardy…” Sadik looked over at her, memorizing the lines of her face, and wondered if she would ever press her cheek against his, or kiss his fingers. He could still dream of it, at least. She couldn’t stop him from doing that (he couldn’t even if he’d wanted to).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [On tumblr](http://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/160416450815/cheiloproclitic-being-attracted-to-someones)
> 
> Mostly unrelated but this has been getting long and there was an abundance of FrUK, so all FrUK pieces here have been moved to their own collection, which you can find in my "Hetalia Drabbles" and "FrUK Oneshots" series.


	16. Savior [FraVat]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt: Savior
> 
> Leo Vargas/The Vatican belongs to [darkestages](http://darkestages.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Circa 1350 AD, early teenage years for Francis, late teenage years for Leo

“Is there word?” Leo was stopped on the threshold of the room by the feeble, rasping sound of France’s voice. The odor of the sickness was fainter here than it had been in the streets of Paris, but it was a smell Leo recognized by now.

“Yes, monsieur, yes, he is come, he is here.” The doctor hovering over France’s bedside like the spectral crow of death beckoned Leo hastily forward. Francis’ face was gray, his cheeks hollow, and Leo could smell blood—his bandages from his war wounds had gone unchanged, he thought. Suddenly, those injuries took a backseat in the carriage when he was busy dying of Plague.

                “Léo! You have come!” His voice cracked, and for a moment the Holy See thought he would start sobbing. His eyes were dry though—too dry to weep. His hand reached out slow and trembling, but withdrew almost as soon. “You must…stay over there,” he whispered hoarsely. “You will get sick.”

 

                “I don’t get sick,” Leo said, setting his Plague mask down on the floor, and taking up the doctor’s seat after he had shooed the man away. This was his business, and no one else would serve.

                “This is different,” Francis insisted in the same weak voice. Leo shook his head.

                “We’ve seen it before, don’t you remember? The Justinian plague?”

                “It was so long ago…” France’s eyes fluttered, and Leo could see the energy his focus sapped from him. While Francis’ rattling breath filled the chamber, Leo studied him, peeling the blankets back to examine him. He could see the telltale black boils on the French boy’s neck, and gentle probing under his arms revealed them there as well. He didn’t need to check further—he knew how far gone his old friend was. Still, his hands continued, until Francis grasped one and stopped him.

                “I am dying, Leo,” he whispered gently.

                “You are a Nation,” Leo said, almost indignant at the very notion of France’s death.

                “So was Rome.”

                “Rome was old, and foolish.” Leo’s harsh tone brooked no mercy or sympathy. The adults in the room watched the scene with the vague sense of unease that mortals always got when confronted with the fact that the Nations were in fact, centuries older than them, no matter how they looked.

                “So I am young, and foolish,” Francis returned, shivering and closing his eyes. Leo freed his hand and pulled the blankets back up.

                “Will you confess?” When Francis had written, begging Leo to come and grant him absolution, Leo had not questioned why another priest would not do. For his final confession, Francis would have only his personal confessor, his Léon. He nodded weakly, and closed his eyes in thought for a moment, before he began croaking out his list of sins and faults.

                When he spoke, it was slow, and he was much shorter of verse than usual—each word took so much from him, he could say only what he deemed absolutely necessary (and even that was more than he really needed). Leo heard and absolved him of all of them, though he suspected that even here, at death’s door, Francis was not telling him all there was to be told.

                “It’s so terrible, Leo,” he murmured, without opening his eyes. “I wish it were over.” There was a wheeze in his throat he was too far gone to cough away. Even since Leo had entered the room, he appeared further drained, exhausted from their conversation. If Leo had thought it would do any good, he would have told France to conserve his strength.

                “It will be soon.” Leo’s voice sounded distant to his own ears, as if he were hearing someone else speaking in the next room over. “This is your last chance to confess, Francis.” Bloodshot blue eyes fluttered open, dull and weary. The shine was gone from them, Leo noted.

                “I have confessed.”

                “All?”

                “All that needs to be said,” he replied, but he did not meet Leo’s gaze, and he knew that France was lying, and not with very much effort, which meant he did not care if Leo knew he was lying. The room was quiet except for Francis’ breathing, and the occasional distressed, sickly sounds that left his throat. He reached again for Leo, who laid his hand in Francis’, and allowed him to grasp it with the little strength left to him. He had seen these hands swing lethal blades, ride full-gallop into battle, and bring fifedoms to heel. But now, his grip was no more dangerous or firm than a stray wisp of hair caught around Leo’s fingers.

                “He won’t be there,” Leo said.

                “Who?”

                “Rome.” Concern over where, exactly, Rome had gone in his afterlife had hounded Leo like a rotten apple rolled under the bed: he wished dearly to be free of it, but the smell pervaded because he was unable to dig out the source. He disliked the notion that Rome was a part of him, and he scratched himself bloody trying to remove that hated piece of his past.

                The room was quiet, but for Francis’ breathing.

                “Do you think he loved us?” Leo’s hand tightened on Francis’ until he felt the other Nation’s muscles twitch trying to pull back.

                “I don’t think he loved anyone but himself.” His lip curled in loathing. “Perhaps he loved the idea of what we could be, serving him.” Francis was shaking his head, and Leo’s gaze bored into him. “You are a fool if you think he loved you, Francis.” The pain in France’s eyes, on his brow, cowed even Leo into softening his words—in his fashion. “Or you see only what you wish to see. You think if you want a thing badly enough, you can make it so. That is what frustrates you continually when you think of him.” It would be bad form, he thought, to make Francis cry on his deathbed, and it would serve him no purpose. “There are other sources of affection in your life,” he soothed. “You do not need the riddled serpent’s love of a dead man.” He brushed his fingers over Francis’ hand, his face a placid monument to inner peace and charity.

                “Leo, I’m afraid of death,” Francis whispered.

                “Do not be; there is nothing to fear,” Leo said. “You are simply going on to another form of existence, another world.”

                “But I go alone.” There was a kind of plea in his eyes, as if Leo could choose to follow him into the void.

                “Only for a time,” Leo said. “There will be others, and when you arrive, you will have no fear. All your earthly failures and inadequacies will be no more.” Francis closed his eyes, and Leo knew he was thinking of Rome.

                “They never thought I would live.” Francis’ eyes were still closed, but his brow furrowed.

                “They were wrong.” Francis did not respond, and the room was quiet, but for his breathing.

                “Leo,” he whispered, his eyelids twitching as he struggled to open them. “Th…thank you…” It seemed to his bleary, dizzy gaze that there was a halo behind Leo’s head, and he turned his face towards him, pressing his cheek against Leo’s knuckles.

                “I am here for my lamb,” he replied quietly, putting a hand on France’s head.

                The room was quiet.


End file.
